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WRITINGS 



CAROLINE ELIZABETH JENNESS. 



a IHcmoir. 



'We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial : 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best; 
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest, — 
Lives in one hour more than in years do some." 



FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 



BOSTON: 

PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON. 
1858. 



7s 2,/5f 



5-1 ^fU 
10 



CONTENTS, 



rage. 

Memoir 1 



irHiscpIInncous 5!lJ[?ritinas. 

Life and Character of Niebuhr 53 

Sketch of the History of Florence 73 

Pascal 107 

Mahomet 127 

The Duty of Intellectual Culture 132 

The Patriarchs 137 

Fairies 146 

Present Condition of Europe 155 

The Resources of our Country 163 

Slavery 183 

Christmas Hymn 199 

The Fountain of Youth 201 

The Death <jf Mansfield 203 

The Death of Mirabeau 205 

The Request 207 

The Pauper's Funerai 209 

Makaba 211 

The Beacon 213 

The Vision 215 

On receiving Campuell's Poems 217 



IV CONTENTS. 

Page. 

" Fear not " 218 

Moses in the Bulrusiiks 219 

Hope on 221 

On the Death of Margahet Miller Davidson 222 

The Meeting of the Departed 224 

On seeing a Painting of Titian's Daughter 226 

Music 229 

Morning 231 

Stanzas 234 

The Miller's Daughter 235 

Nuptial Song 237 

The Soldier 239 

Love flies 241 

To Jessie 243 

The Ploughman's Daughter 244 

Epitaph 246 

Love 248 

Song 249 

Repose 250 

Lines for an Album 252 

A Legend of Blenheim 253 

The Deserted House 258 

Ode to Solitude 261 

Libertt 263 

On a Picture 264 

The Flowers of mt Garden 266 

The Heathen Mother's Lament 271 

Ministry of Grief 273 

Hymn 'i74 

Lines to a Friend 275 



MEMOIR. 



TN sketching, however briefly, the life and character 
-^ of an individual, as in the delineation of a land- 
scape, distance seems necessary, in order to give to 
every feature its fair and just proportion, and to de- 
pict it in such a manner as to leave a life-like 
impression on the mind of the beholder. A close 
survey, while it imparts greater accuracy to the 
detail, and a more intimate acquaintance with the de- 
licate features that strike the eye of the near observer, 
sometimes detracts from the strong and general 
impression of the whole character, as made upon one, 
who, with fewer opportunities of minute observation, 
takes in at a single glance the more striking and 
prominent characteristics of the scene. 

As this volume is designed, however, rather to 
preserve the memory of one truly loved in the hearts 
of those near and dear, than to make known her 
comparatively retired and secluded life to strangers. 



MEMOIR. 



we trust that whatever defects or omissions may be 
found in its execution will be excused and supplied 
by the kind memories of those to whom she was the 
constant friend and the genial companion. 

Of her writings, comparatively few remain. Always 
seeing before her a higher standard of excellence than 
that already attained, she was in the habit of destroy- 
ing her papers from time to time, feeling dissatisfied 
with any thing short of the best of which her mental 
powers were capable. As these were developed and 
strengthened, views and judgments, though carefully 
formed and expressed at the time, were constantly 
modified and enlarged ; and papers written at one 
period would often be destroyed, as no longer express- 
ing her true opinion, or full power of conveying the 
truth to another mind. Several of those which are 
here collected have been preserved through the care 
of friends ; a few having been published at the time 
they were written. They are now printed as they 
were left ; though we cannot but wish that her hand 
had revised and arranged them, and that more had 
been preserved of the writings of later years, upon 
subjects to which she devoted much thought and 
study. 

Some of these now printed are fragmentary ; but 
they are retained, as valuable to near friends, being 
the chief that remains of the product of her ready pen 
and active mind. 



MEMOIR. 



Caroline Elizabeth Jenness, the eldest child of 
Richard Jenness and Caroline M'Clintock, was born 
at Deerfield, N.H., Aug. 22, 1824. No remarkable 
incidents marked her early childhood : but, possessing 
good bodily health, and a buoyant, happy tempera- 
ment, she enjoyed with zest the pleasures suited to 
her years ; while she early evinced an unusual love of 
knowledge, a power of acquisition, and a capacity to 
accomplish whatever was undertaken, — whether in 
the way of study, the use of the needle, or in house- 
hold duties, — which are rarely witnessed so early in 
life. 

Her earlier years were marked by the same quick- 
ness of observation, the same strength of will and 
tenacity of purpose, the same indomitable perseve- 
rance in accomplishing whatever was undertaken, 
that characterized her later life. What sometimes 
proved obstinacy and self-will in the child became the 
power by which she triumphed over every obstacle, 
seeming or real, in her intellectual progress, and 
resisted those depressing influences of weary pain 
and suff"ering in after-years that would have crushed a 
nature less firm, and less capable of endurance. 

Deerfield was ever a pleasant spot to her ; and 
though her father removed thence to Portsmouth in 



MEMOIR. 



1828, when she was but four years of age, she always 
loved to visit her grandmother's house, and cherished 
a happy remembrance of the place, as the scene where 
her earliest years were passed, and where, amid the 
green fields, the verdant hills, and the picturesque 
scenery, of her native home, she imbibed that love 
of nature, and of every thing beautiful in the outward 
world, which characterized her through life. 

Even when a child, lessons were a pastime, rather 
than a task ; and few ever derived more true enjoyment 
from school-life. Her teachers sympathized in her 
strong desire to progress ; and step after step was 
gained with little seeming effort, though an amount of 
time and thought was expended on her lessons of which 
few were aware who witnessed her readiness to parti- 
cipate in the amusements of her age, and who knew 
her extended acquaintance with mere light literature. 
Thoroughness marked her acquirements ; and for 
this she was indebted to the fidelity of her teachers, 
no less than to her own native aversion to all super- 
ficiality. 

At the age of thirteen and fourteen, in addition to 
her regular school-studies, she read, with care. 
Gibbon's " Decline and Fall," Hume's " History of 
England," Prescott's " Ferdinand and Isabella," and 
works of a similar character; evincing, even then, 
that love of historical research which continued a 
favorite pursuit through life. 

Yet, mingled with more serious occupations, there 



MEMOIR. 



was ever a liveliness of conversation, a genial warmth 
of feeling, and a true, deep affection, that attached 
her strongly to her nearest friends ; and friendships 
formed in early school-days, so apt to be transitory, 
with her continued unbroken through life. A few 
letters remain of this period, which evince that the 
habit of self-examination was early formed, and which 
express considerable interest in the public services of 
Christian worship, as well as an appreciation of the 
religious privileges enjoyed from childhood, both at 
church and in the sabbath school. 

She thus writes to a friend then in Boston : — 

"Mr. Hall preached last Sunday afternoon; and I wish 
you had been with us to attend the services. His subject 
was ' The Re-union and Knowledge of our Friends in 
Heaven ; ' and so touchingly, so beautifully, did he speak 
of that future state, and of the meeting of friends parted 
from us for a little season, that, had I never believed it 
before, I should have then. After such an hour, one cannot 
but be better, for a time at least. I wish, too, that you had 
been at Sunday school. I felt the remarks that were made ; 
for, within a year, two of our number have been taken from 
us. . . . If we could clearly read the account of the past 
months, see the duties done and undone distinctly before us, 
the sins committed, the wrong thoughts and feelings in- 
dulged, would not our hearts turn pale with sorrow ? Yet 
He who searcheth all hearts knows us truly and wholly. 
Why has not this thought a more constraining, abiding 
influence ? Yet have we not the promise, that those who 
ask shall receive ; and that, if we seek^ we shall surely 
find ? " 



6 ME M O I R. 

It was with great delight, that, at this time, she 
first read some of Channing's " Discourses," especially 
his sermon on " Immortality." The closing portions 
she copied, in order to impress them more deeply upon 
her mind; and often referred to his words in after- 
years. The future life became more real to her 
through his life-giving, inspiring thoughts of the 
boundlessness of human existence ; and nobler aims 
and higher desires were kindled, as she dwelt upon 
the full assurance of an immortal life, made known 
through Christ. Sometimes the vague yearnings and 
restless desires of her soul for something more and 
higher than earth can give, expressed themselves in 
verses, often destroyed almost as soon as written. 
One beautiful spring afternoon, when school-duties 
were over, and every recitation prepared for the next 
day, she walked into the country for an hour, return- 
ing after sunset. Never have we seen her enjoy more 
deeply the calm beauty of the sunset hour ; and, after 
watching every changing hue of the heavens, — as the 
deep, rich crimson faded into the clear, mellow twi- 
light, and then changed into the dim, dusky hue of 
the evening hour, — she returned home unusually 
silent and thoughtful. The following lines, composed 
at the time, are of value, only as being the earliest 
of her writings that remain, and as evincing the 
direction her thoughts often took, when, to many, 
she appeared wholly occupied in intellectual pur- 
suits : — 



MEMOIR. 7 

" Oh, Would that I might flee away, 
Above in the clouds, like thee, 
Thou bird of the foam-white wing, and rest 
Where storms can never be ! 

For the weary world of sin and grief, 

And the troubled sounds of woe, 
Are stilled where the Crystal streams of light 

And the summer breezes blow. 

And the shivered strings are bound again ; 

And the golden harps have strains. 
That thrill in soft and gentle tones 

O'er yonder heavenly plains. 

Thou hast been above, in the floating clouds ; 

And perchance thou knowest the home 
Of the pure and loved, and the true of heart, 

Above, where thou hast flown. 

Would, would, that I had a wing like thee. 

Away that I might flee. 
And rest in the rainbow land of light. 

Above life's stormy sea ! " 

The eldest of five children, and her mother's state 
of health at times disabling her from the perform- 
ance of the more active duties devolving upon her as 
head of the family, she early gained a skill in house- 
hold duties, and in the use of the needle, rarely 
surpassed by those of entire leisure, and with no taste 
for reading or study. Every moment was occupied. 
A systematic arrangement of her studies and duties 
marked even her opening years; so that by close 
industry, no less than by the faithful use of superior 



8 MEMOIR. 

abilities, an amount of labor was accomplished, often 
incredible to those who knew not the steadfastness of 
purpose which led her right on, every obstacle or dif- 
ficulty only proving an incentive to new effort. 

If a young friend called to pass an hour, some 
fancy-work or embroidery designed as a gift to a 
friend, or necessary plain sewing, was always ready to 
occupy her hands ; while, even in the performance of 
household duties, a grammar, or book of poetry, was 
often so placed as to be referred to in any moment of 
leisure, so that as little time as possible should be 
expended in mere manual labor. 

Her memory, retentive of thoughts and ideas rather 
than of mere words, sometimes rendered her recita- 
tions less true than some of her class, where a mere 
verbatim lesson was required ; but, in almost all 
others, she always took the first place, readily assigned 
her by her classmates as well as by her teachers. 
Compositions, so often the greatest dread of the school- 
girl, proved a pleasant and easy task to her. When 
only eleven or twelve years of age, we have known 
her employ the leisure time of recess in writing on 
the slate long stories for the amusement of her young 
friends, — full of strange and thrilling incidents, yet 
almost always having an historical foundation, — the 
next hour to be replaced by sums in Colburn, or some 
algebraic solution. 

Truthfulness always marked her social intercourse ; 
and though, in early life, this sometimes amounted 



MEMOIR. 9 

almost to bluntness, it was tempered in maturer years 
by a kindlier judgment, and a regard to the feelings 
of others, — the result of a more just self-knowledge, 
as well as of a truer appreciation of their characters 
and claims. A quick and keen sense of the ridicu- 
lous sometimes caused her to utter words wounding 
to a sensitive spirit ; and, in opening life, her superior 
mental abilities, as well as a too impulsive judgment, 
led her, in some instances, to underrate those who 
cared little for study, or whose progress in knowledge 
was gained only by slow and difficult steps. But as 
conscience became more enlightened and active ; 
as a truer acquaintance with others led her to prize 
their virtues, as well as to see their defects ; and, more 
than all, as a keener insight into her own heart 
revealed its secret wants and sins, while the one 
great end and aim of being gradually unfolded itself 
before the inward eye, — these faults were clearly 
seen ; and the endeavor to " render to all their due " 
drew towards her many, as warm friends, who had 
little sympathy in her merely intellectual pursuits. 
Her love to her friends was strong and true. With a 
large circle of acquaintance, whom she always 
enjoyed to meet, and possessing the happy faculty 
of adapting her conversation to the tastes of those 
around her, her intimate friends were comparatively 
few ; but, to these few, her attachment was sin- 
cere and constant, — never wavering, and never 
interrupted by those slight misunderstandings which 



10 MEMOIR. 

SO often mar the intercourse of otherwise true 
friends. 

We subjoin here a few extracts from the only letter 
that remains of this period : — 

"November, 1839. 

. . . "I am now really pressed with business. You may 
laugh ; but I have as many lessons as I can possibly attend 
to, with other duties. I have finished my algebra ; and 
have commenced geometry, which I like very much ; also 
geology. I have been reading Henry Kirke White's Life 
and Poems ; and I am delighted with his character, it was 
so pure, holy, and true. It does not seem to me that! shall 
ever acquire tliat abiding trust and reliance on God that he 
had. I have also read the Life of Neff, who was another of 
those " holy men of Israel." Sometimes it strikes me as 
strange, that those who are so pure, so fitted to do such 
great good in this world, should so early be taken : but I 
remember, that, the purer the spirit is, the better fitted it is 
for a higher sphere ; and, if suffered to live, how seldom the 
fruit fully realizes, on earth, the promise of the bud ! . . . I 
have also been reading Irving's ' Companions of Columbus,' 
and Botta's ' History of the Revolution.' . . . But let us 
not forget that higher knowledge to be attained, my dear 

. When you look into the future, and see the long 

vista of years of toil, trial, and suffering that may await us, 
does not your spirit almost shrink from the contemplation ? 
I sometimes feel as if I should never overcome the trials 
that I must liave. But we are taiight, that ' sufficient unto 

the day is the evil thereof;' and if we, dear , really 

try to be faithful servants to our higli Master, we shall at 
length, slowly, yet step by step, arrive at the stature of the 
perfect Christian, It almost seems impossible that I ever 
shall ; but 1 know, that, ' with God, all things are possible.' 



MEMOIR. 11 

' Unto whom much is given, mucli will be required.' We 
do not have the excuse of sinning through ignorance. . . . 

I have always taken the deepest interest in 's welfare : I 

hope she will go on improving in knowledge and virtue. 
Do try to impress her with those feelings which will tend 
to form her moral character ; for she is generous, loving, 
and easily guided by those around her. 

" Suppose that, to make our correspondence of greater 
real benefit, we should sometimes write upon some subject. 
It seems to me it would improve us both ; for I can express 
my thoughts more freely in letter-writing than in any other 
species of composition, having then no desire to shine, and 
no fear of teachers' blots and marks, nor short epitaphs at the 
bottom of the page, — ' Very well,' or ' Very poor : ' by 
the way, the latter a thing more likely to be said than the 
former. 

" I returned from Deerfield on Friday. The day was 
very pleasant, but cold ; and I do not recollect when I have 
noticed such beautiful clouds at mid-day. They were of 
the deepest, clearest blue, shaded with white, and a dull 
slate. Sometimes a beautiful, light-blue lake lay imbosomed 
among high mountains, white as snow ; and, at others, a 
belt of blue girded them. Perhaps you noticed them. 

" Do write as often as possible. 

" Affectionately yours, 

" Caeoline." 

In May, 1840, while in her sixteenth year, she 
entered a more advanced school, with several compa- 
nions of nearly the same age, all of whom were desi- 
rous to improve, and were interested in their studies, 
but whom she rapidly surpassed in most acquirements. 
At this time she first enjoyed an opportunity of study- 



12 .\I E M () [ 1{. 

ing the languages ; and she evinced at once an un- 
usual ease and skill in their acquisition. French, 
Italian, and German soon became rather a pastime 
than a study. Latin was commenced at home, and 
Spanish pursued to some extent. Without a teacher, 
and with only the use of a grammar and dictionary, 
she employed her leisure moments in the study of 
Sanscrit ; but this she gave up after a time, thinking 
that other pursuits would prove of more real benefit 
to her. Music also occupied some part of every day, 
and was always a source of great pleasure to her, from 
her earliest years until the last week of her life ; though 
she was never willing to let it take the place of more 
serious pursuits. At this time she rose very early, — 
sometimes by four in the morning, — and never seemed 
weary so long as there was the opportunity for im- 
provement ; though physical exercise was often too 
much neglected. Possessing a naturally strong con- 
stitution, and with pursuits more than sufficient to 
occupy every hour, she could hardly be persuaded 
that fresh air and exercise were essential to the pre- 
servation of her health, though none enjoyed more 
keenly a ride on horseback ; and a walk with a friend 
who would converse upon themes in which she most 
delighted, or a ramble among the woods in search of 
wild flowers to aid her botanical studies, was always 
welcomed as a pleasure. 

It was during her last year at school that most of 
her fugitive pieces of poetry were composed, little in 



M E M O I R. 13 

the same vein being written in after-years: for she 
felt that her best powers lay in a different direction ; 
and she had too exalted an idea of the divine gift 
of the poet ever to regard it as one belonging to her- 
self In a letter to a friend, at whose request she had 
written a few verses, she thus expresses herself: — 

" I have written the lines on the subject you requested, 
and send them ; but I am not satisfied, and never sliall be, 
with my own writings. I desire poetry, like the copy of 
Guido's ' Sibyl ' that I have seen, to be imbued with a 
solemn, prophetic expression, — to possess a dignity and 
power, and yet a subduing beauty, which the higher artists 
have alone known how to mingle. I desire it to breathe the 
strains which are heard by angelic spirits from the harp of 
nature." 

At this time she accompanied her father on a short 
visit to Bangor and Oldtown, making a good part of 
the journey in an old-fashioned stage-coach. At the 
latter place, she visited some of the Indian tribes ; 
and their wild manner of life, their early history, so 
wrapped in obscurity, as well as the strange myths 
with which their legends abounded, appealed strongly 
to her imagination, and left an impression never after- 
wards effaced. She possessed a good knowledge of 
their history, and took considerable interest in tracing 
the various correspondences in their language, man- 
ners, and habits, with the original inhabitants of 
Other lands. 

During the next three years, her life was passed in 



14 M K M O I U. 

the quiet routine of home-duties, and in the prosecu- 
tion of her favorite pursuits, varied occasionally by a 
visit to her grandmother's house at Deerfield. A few 
letters written from this place show the pleasure with 
which she always returned to her native home : — 

" May. 

" You will be surprised to hear from me so soon, my 

dear ; but I should have little new to write, if I staid 

ever so long. Nature, to be sure, is ever new and ever 
young ; but I cannot describe her beauties and manifold 
forms. I inhale pleasure with every breeze ; but it is a 
pleasure I cannot paint. I would not, if I could, ring to 
you the changes of blue hills, blue skies, airs perfumed with 
apple-blossoms. I would not, if I could, tell you all the 
pretty stories of the fairies in the sleepy violet's eye, thick as 
they can be in every nook ; of their feasts round their 
golden tables, the dandelions ; of the thousand little billets- 
doux that are flying on every apple-blossom, and dropping 
on the breeze. Not I ; for you know all before. And what 
would be the use ? Nature is a presence to me, like that of 
a dear friend, whom I would not think of talking about 
when with her. 

" This is, indeed, one of the quietest places in the world. 
The stages from Manchester and Portsmouth go by once in 
a day or two ; and I have heard one subterranean report, to 
announce that the nether world is not asleep, if the upper 
one is. I think seriously of the ' Poor Lady's Journal ' in the 
' Spectator,' and fear my own would be about as empty : 
certainly it would be so of incident. 

" Quiet thinking is out of fashion. Hermit-like, every 
man's soul can be known only to himself; for ' our nearest 
friends know how little of us ! ' Yet every man, as if afraid 
to know this hermit self, seeks to become acquainted with 



MEMOIR. 15 

t 

souls not half so capable, perhaps, as his own, and seeks in 
vain. . . . There are, indeed, ample subjects for thought, 
even here, if I only remember that this soul of mine must 
live, sorrow, rejoice, progress, alone, as it were, through 
eternity. You will understand me. . . . As to reading, I 
have the Bible and Shakspeare ; and these are enough. If 
I wish for real study, I have a charming work on conic 
sections, and Niebuhr's last volume." . . . 



« Deerfield, July, 1842. 

" I am sitting at a half-open window, my dear ; and 

the rain falls softly on the leaves, with a sleepy, soothing 
sound. I never saw the country look in a finer state. The 
immense mowing-fields ; the grain, just turning, and waving 
so gracefully with every breeze ; the dark, rich verdure of 
the trees ; the peculiar summer, hazy hue resting on the 
mountains ; the beautiful perfume from the sweet-ferns, — 
throw tlie greatest charms around a country life. For my- 
self, it would always be my favorite home ; for I breathe a 
diviner excitement in the pure air, in the wonderful variety 
of vegetable nature, and the grandeur of the hills that 
girdle us round in a loving embrace of beauty. Do not 
smile ; for, whether the aroma of a remembrance that here 
I was born, or the natural perfectness of the scene lingers 
around and overshadows my judgment, certain it is, that 
this is a most enchanting spot. And yet it is a wondrous 
place to dream in ; that is, to have one thought, and revolve 
it over and over, and examine it inch by inch, until you are 
sure — quite sure, with Mr. John Willet — that you have 
actually got hold of an idea. . . . 

"The Infinite Spirit is, indeed, everywhere, — the all- 
animating spirit, and the bond of nature. I can think of 
nothing that can so express the whole visible and invisible 
creation as the word ' harmony.' Man is too often a note 



16, MEMOIR. 

of discord ; and yet, in the kind providence of God, even 
these jarring strains breathe of the divine will, and 
strengthen the heart of the penitent through a sense of 
humility. How true is this in the history of man, where 
the crimes of one age, the indolence of one generation, 
sow the seeds of a revulsion of feeling, and a new-born 
energy and purity! And this, to me, is one proof of the 
Christian revelation ; since the most vile are unwillingly, 
yet continually, justifying its declarations by their own 
experience and fate. They may, like Napoleon, overflow 
the world on the billows of conquest ; but behind them, as 
they progress, and over the landmarks which they have 
swept away, the waves are gathering that will swallow them 
up in their turn. This conquering power, in the end, is the 
moral power, which, unselfish and undazzled, proceeds gra- 
dually and surely, restoring and protecting. . . . This is 
truly a quiet, dreamy spot. However, I am quite contented ; 
and surely cheerfulness is the best prayer, the best anthen^ 
of thanksgiving, man can raise to his Creator. ... I hope 
to be with you soon. 

" Your affectionate C ." 

At this time she entered more fully than before 
into society, and was always welcomed as one pos- 
sessing unusual conversational powers, and a liveliness 
of manner, and quickness of repartee, that made her a 
general favorite. She had a happy faculty, too, in 
amusing children, by telling them stories or planning 
games ; while many an older friend will recall the 
hours she has made pleasant by more sober, quiet 
conversation. Large parties she never greatly 
enjoyed : there was usually too much frivolity, con- 
ventionality, and fashion, too little of real improve- 



MEMOIR. 17 

merit, in them, to satisfy her. " If you have attended 
half a dozen, you have been to all," she would some- 
times say; "for one is a mere repetition of another, 
with some change in the decorations." Yet her social 
sympathies were active and true ; and none enjoyed 
more the smaller circle of friends, especially if 
they possessed the power of quickening her own 
thought, or of contributing to her real improve- 
ment. 

At the same time, united with a strong intellectual 
ambition, more serious thoughts and inquiries, of 
which few were aware, occupied her mind. 

Questions arose as to the truth of the Christian 
faith and revelation. The implicit trust of childhood 
in another's teachings had been outgrown ; and it was 
not in the nature of a mind like hers to adopt any 
mere theories as truth, unless they had been tho- 
roughly proved and tested. Books on the evidences of 
the Christian religion were carefully read ; the Bible — 
both the Old and New Testaments — was diligently 
studied, and numerous notes written. Butler's " Ana- 
logy," and works of a similar character, were perused 
with deep interest ; and while the opinions of 
others were closely judged, and often differed from, 
she rested not until she felt that her faith was esta- 
blished upon a sure and firm foundation, the strength 
of which was manifested in her later years of suffering 
and decline. There was always a distrust in her mind 
of mere emotional feeling, - — of truth as received 



18 MEMOIR. 

through the intellectual nature, and thence acting 
upon the heart, — which often led her to avoid 
any expression of individual interest in religious 
themes, where such interest was really felt, and where 
its manifestation would have been for her own good 
and that of others. Beneath a light or gay manner, 
there was often concealed a depth of inward life, and 
of true religious feeling, known to very few. This 
she regretted in after-years ; for she felt that it was a 
neglect of opportunities for good, placed immediately 
within her power. The writings of Thomas a 
Kempis, of Fenelon, and of Jeremy Taylor, were 
familiar to her ; and a deeper interest than before 
was taken in the public services of Christian wor- 
ship. 

With a growing sense of the infinite value of a 
Christian faith, there was also a longing to do more 
for others, — to be more active in works of benevo- 
lence and charity. The question, " What shall I do 1 " 
— so often perplexing to the young when the field 
of effort, with all its wide opportunities, first opens 
before them, — was not suffered to pass without a 
definite response. " I can give money, or mere alms," 
she sometimes said ; " but this requires no self-denial 
on my part : but if I give my time ; if I give help to 
another, intellectual or spiritual, — I give what is 
really a part of myself; and, situated as I am, that 
is the only true charity." 

With the poet, she believed and felt, — 



MEMOIR. 19 

" That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; 
He gives nothing but worthless gold 

Who gives from a sense of duty ; 
But he who gives a slender mite, 
And gives to that which is out of sight, 

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
Which runs through all and doth all unite, — 
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 
^ The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
For a god goes with it and makes it store 
To the soul that was starving in darkness before." 

With these feelings, she formed a small class in 
history, gave lessons to some young friends in French 
and Italian, and read German with a companion ; con- 
tinuing, at the same time, her studies in Latin and 
Greek, and acquainting herself more fully with Eng- 
lish literature, especially with the old English drama- 
tists and poets. 

She also became a teacher in the sabbath school, of 
which she had been a constant pupil from early child- 
hood ; and took no little interest in her class, and in 
the meetings for teachers, which she usually attended. 
Her lessons were always thoroughly studied before 
going to her class ; for she was never satisfied with 
a mere verbatim recitation, nor did she find the 
hour appropriated to class-duties too long to occupy 
her. Her standard of the qualifications necessary to 
the teacher was high ; and she felt that every teacher 
was sacredly bound to do all in his or her power to 
render the sabbath school a higher and more effective 
means of usefulness, bringing to it the best of mental 



20 M E M O I R. 

culture and spiritual life. Some of her pupils were 
from the humbler walks of society ; and with these 
she made herself particularly acquainted in their own 
homes, aiding them by her skilful use of the needle, 
and, by her social manner and kind words, interesting 
the parents as well as the children in the school. 

During the last year of her life, she inquired with 
particular interest as to these pupils, and their pro- 
spects in life, and then added, " I wonder if they ever 
think of me: I am sure I do of them." In after- 
years, when debarred from any active means of useful- 
ness, she often said in reference to the school, in 
whose true prosperity she felt a deep interest even 
to the last week of her life, " Could I again return to 
my duties as teacher, it would be with very different 
aims from those with which I first entered on the 
vocation. We need intellectual clearness and truth, 
systematic teaching, and a thorough knowledge of 
the Scriptures, it is true ; but I should make it my 
direct aim to reach the hearts of my pupils, to lead 
them to Christ, and to show them the worthlessness 
of all acquirements not sanctified by love to him, and 
faith in his divine life and teachings." 

She was aware of the danger, from her constitu- 
tional temperament, of exalting the intellectual above 
the spiritual ; and, while conscious of having too 
much yielded to it, she desired to lead others to a 
higher standard of character. Looking upon the 
future life as a continuance of the present, — the 



MEMOIR. 21 

change produced by death being a change in the mode 
of existence, and not any sudden, entire revulsion of 
character or feeling, — she felt that every power and 
faculty here cultivated and strengthened was for eter- 
nity, and not for time; and that, the greater the 
improvement here made, the better fitted was the spi- 
rit to enter upon the wider spheres of progress opened 
to it in its higher home. 

In October, 1843, she visited New York for the first 
time ; and amid social engagements, and all the 
excitements incident to a first visit in that great 
city, it is evident, from the following letter, that 
the reality of life impressed her more and more 
deeply, and that purposes of improvement, and a 
quick and true sympathy with tried friends, occupied 
the secret thoughts of her heart : — 

" New York, Oct. 13, 1843. 

" Dear , I felt greatly obliged to you for writing to 

me without ceremony. Ceremony is so tiresome, so weary- 
ing, that freedom, now-a-days, is like food to a hungry man ; 
and I desire you, henceforth, to take every freedom w;ith me 
possible, even to scolding and reproving. . . . Here is 
life exhibited in all its vanity, ambition, extravagance, folly, 
activity, and energy. I feel swallowed up, lost, in it. I am 
not myself, — only a part of the great drama playing about 
me. I cannot jtell you how deeply I am impressed with its 
weight, its importance, with the complicated means given 
men to develop the great end, while I am borne along by 
the crowd, and the countenances of the passers-by move 
before me, impressed with anxiety, thought, or frivolity. 
One is so humbled, yet for the better. I never feel so in 



22 M E M O I R. 

the country ; for there my thoughts are calmer and more 
peaceful, like the scenery around me. 

" I heard Dr. Dewey on Sunday, and liked him much. 
The theme of his discourse was the spiritual lethargy^ the 
content with our attainments, that essentially checks all 
real improvement. I did, indeed, determine henceforth to 
arouse myself to something better. What might I not have 
been, had every moment been improved, no thought wasted, 
no occasion for good omitted ! Have we not been unwisely 
contented, even in intellectual efforts ? Is it not too true of 
the spiritual ? . . . I am sure that my soul has wings ; but 
they are dust-laden from long folding. . . . 

" I cannot but speak of the Croton reservoirs : they are 

such wonderful, such beautiful specimens of skill, that, 

when I examined them, I could not help rejoicing in my 

humanity, and feeling proud that God had enabled man, so 

poor, weak, and humble, to conceive and perform so much. 

... I have seen, too. Weir's picture of the ' Pilgrim 

Embarkation ; ' but it did not make my heart beat as Mrs. 

Hemans's song has many a time done. The coloring was 

cold and dead, and the expression passionless. You could 

trace no inward struggle to suppress the grief at parting, no 

sign of recent tears, no bold fervor or earnest hope. Yet 

the grouping was good, and one figure angelic, — the wife 

of Miles Standish ; while Mrs. Bradford had a sweet, femi- 

« 
nine expression of countenance. I should have said that 

the Pilgrims are engaged in prayer, on the deck of the vessel 

in which they are about to sail, while their friends remain 

on the wharf awaiting their departure. 

" Last week I visited the rooms of a portrait-painter, and 

saw a fine fancy-piece of the sale of a Circassian slave to a 

Turk. The shrinking of the girl, her contracted brow, 

raised shoulders, and averted face ; the calm scrutiny of the 

Turk ; and the diabolical interest of the slave-dealer, — ^" were 

very striking. 



MEMOIR. 23 

"I hardly know whether all these things will interest 
you at present ; but I hope that they may, as the beautiful 
and the true should always do. ... We have had differing 
fates thus far : but I think we fully understand each other ; 
and my own spirit is not entirely inharmonious with sorrow. 
There is no joy in life, that is enduring, but in progress and 
improvement ; and while we look upon its cares and joys 
and anxieties in this light, while we feel that the soul is 
made perfect through suffering, we can see the change, and 
autumn and death, as only a change to a higher life for the 
dying, and an awakening voice to ourselves. 

" I hope to be with you very soon. 

" Affectionately yours, 

" Caeoline." 

Soon after her return, the following note was 
addressed to the same friend : — 

"Nov. 11, 1843. 

"My dear , ... Is not this enough to make us 

glad, even in sorrow ? This life, it appears to me, is only a 
part'of our eternal existence ; and every moment that we 
improve insures its own happiness. 

^ " How beautifully are we bound together by our affec- 
tions ! and, although they may often cause pain, are they 
not the means of far greater joy ? 

" Let us thank God each moment for our existence : for, 
though weary, sick, or oppressed, there may be joy in life, — 
a peace in the belief that the darkness shall but usher in 
the brighter morning ; that the providence of God never 
sleeps. And what joy alone in the possession of a soul ! for, 
frail as may be its dwelling-place here, it is more iioble than 
accident, unconquered by pain, enduring for ever and ever. 
Let us thank God that he has deigned to open our eyes, 
even partially, to his glories ; and, far more than this, that 



24 



MEMOIR. 



we shall see clearer hereafter, and have opened to us fai 
higher means of progress. 

" Life is but short ; and the mist over our hearts should 
not hide from us the dawning of a brighter day. The 
departed will soon be ours again ; and how shall we meet 
them, with the clouds of sadness weighing upon the wings 
of the spirit ? 

" Only bless God for his numberless mercies left, only be 
trustful, and how clear and sunlike will be the peace in your 
heart ! 

" Do not misunderstand me. I know the greatness of 
your trial ; but I know,, too, that all is well, and that suffi- 
cient for the day will be your strength. 

" Affectionately yours, 

" Caroline." 

In the summer of 1846, in company with her 
parents, one of her sisters, and several friends, she 
took her first extended journey, visiting West Point, 
Trenton, Niagara, Saratoga, &c. "With her, " a thing 
of beauty was a joy for ever; " and the views of the 
glory and richness of the outward world now 
opened, displaying the wonderful power, love, and 
glory of the Creator, inspired her with feelings never 
forgotten. We subjoin a letter written from Trenton 
Falls : — 

" Dear , Here am I at Trenton, — madcap, frolick- 
ing Trenton ; wild, merry, peevish, fretful, troublesome 
Trenton. Is it not the sweetest of all dangerous beauties ? 
If Ariel, in his wanderings, had ever found this place, I am 
sure he would never have aired his wings again : he would 
have been imprisoned out of love to the blue-bells dipped in 



MEMOIR. 25 

its spray. I am sure, in his divings, he never found so 
beautiful a place. I wish I could be here for months, not 
for days, or only one solitary day apart by itself in its lovely 
remembrances. If I were Undine, Trenton should make 
my ribbons for me ; and I would wear at the parties of 
Kiihleborn only the flowers she first wore in her hair. 

" I have been in all the dangerous places, and have not 
been a bit afraid, except for others. It is not the safest of 
places here ; but, if ever fear had a charm, it has it by these 
dashing, eternally foaming waterfalls. I have half a mind to 
stay here, and not go to Niagara, as I believe that the sublime 
has not so much power over me as the beautiful. Trenton 
is, to be sure, only the child ; but, then, which had one rather 
see, — a child, with a heaven of smiles and innocence in its 
eyes ; or a Laocoon, mighty and terrible in its strug- 
gles ? 

" I wish that you had been with me to-day to enjoy my 
pleasure ; for I am confident that you would not be weary of 
looking again. I thought of some of our beautiful Psalms ; 
how ' the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firma- 
ment showeth his handiwork : ' for here is the place where 
we might read some of the noble passages of the prophets 
with hearts rightly attuned, and my favorite hymn, — the 
Hymn in the Yale of Chamouny, you remember, — 

' And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad.' 

When a child, I saw a picture — symbolical of Poetry — of a 
beautiful lady upon an overhanging precipice, bearing a harp 
above a flood of rushing waters, her hair in most dishevelled 
grace, as all heroines wear it, and the night-wind apparently 
tossing the branches of the trees above her. It would not cer- 
tainly be a very comfortable position, if she were of mortal 
stuff. However, when I stood near one of the falls, I involun- 
tarily placed her upon a steep ledge opposite. There she will 
sit for the rest of my life, enthroned, and crowned with her 

4 



26 MEMOIR. 

chaplet. Don't laugh at me for my raptures. In truth, I 
don't expect weeks to make me a humdrum personage after 
I get home ; and, if you have become one so soon, more 
shame to you. 

" But I have been up the Hudson, and at West Point, — 
a very Eden, — and have said nothing about them. In 
truth, I have seen so mucli ah-eady, that I find ideas and 
thoughts about every tiling scarce ; and, when I come to 
Niagara, I shall not liave one left lar^e enough. But West 
Point is perfect. I imagine all the Naiads, all the Tritons, 
all the water-subjects of the olden Jupiter, to be sporting in 
its sweet waters, and the Olympian Jupiter himself sitting 
in calm majesty upon the mountains. The loved goddess, 
even, might not spurn such an abode ; for her own Crete is 
not lovelier, in my imagination. We had a dancing-party 
the officers got up for our benefit ; saw the stag-dance on the 
green ; went to the Parades, and came away assured that so 
Paradise looked before it was a wreck. I will tell you, 
when I get home, how gloriously the echoes swelled in the 
hills ; how sweetly the cow-bells tinkled for us, as we came 
down Fort Putnam, a very ' Kanz des Vaches.' . . . 

" Yours affectionately, 

" Caeoline." 

Every opportunity which parental indulgence and 
love could afford was opened to her for intellectual 
culture; and faithfully all such were used. She 
passed several months in Boston, in order to have the 
best instruction in drawing and painting ; and, when 
there, she also pursued her studies in Latin and 
Greek, making a good proficiency. 

We here introduce a few extracts from letters 
written while absent from home, as they are the only 



MEMOIR. 27 

writings that remain of this period. The first note, 
in a playful vein, was sent to a friend on Christmas, 
with the gift of two statuettes : — 

« Boston, Dec. 23, 1848. 

" In the number of articles exhibited on the coxinters of 

the fancy-stores, my dear , I have chosen ' this ' and 

* that ' to remind you of me on Christmas Day. Hungarians, 
in pen-wipers, have bowed and scraped for my notice ; 
essences have asked only to be smelled ; books have most 
audibly said, ' We, too, mademoiselle ; ' portfolios and pape- 
teries have looked fascinating ; toys, even, have cast a tender 
eye at me, and winked, ' The world is but a stage, and we 
the players on it ; ' — until, like a man, who, in a crowd of 
favoring beauties, is won by the last one who smiles upon him, 
I was at last captivated by these exquisite figures I send 

you. Run with me, dear , through the corridors of 

time, and, without looking at your various transformations 
in the niches as you pass, stop at the one in which you will 
see yourself in the lovely little woman I send you, who is 
only too happy in the smiles of the charming old man by lier 
side. And I can hear the precious soul quavering, — 

' Drink to me only, with thine eyes ; ' — 

for songs are always young, and I am sure will always be 
the delight of young and old. . . . 

" Affectionately yours, " C." 

The following letter was written in a more serious 

mood : — 

"New-Year's Day, 1848. 

'" How can I thank you sufficiently for again remember- 
ing me, my dear ? I really am not worthy of such 

kindness. One feels so humbled at seasons like the present, 



28 M E M () I F^ 

when friends are overwhelming us with kindness, and yet we 
know so well our own unworthiness. I wish you, indeed, a 
happy New Year, — a year of improvement and of spiritual 

progress. . . . Ah ! my dear , if all these periods of 

time were rightly improved, they would not set to us, like 
so many days, in darkness, but would rather be like those 
Northern days, where the sun just touches the horizon, to 
ascend the heavens again with unfading brightness. 

" I saw a beautiful picture the other day, that I wish you 
could have seen, — Schceffcr's Christus Consolator. On 
one side of the Saviour are those who are sad at heart ; and, 
on the other, captives, — men in bonds, physically and spi- 
ritually. At the Saviour's feet, a mother has fallen upon 
her dead infant, worn out with grief ; on his arm leans a 
Magdalen, in speechless but most eloquent grief; while He, 
with an expression of the utmost benignity, with even a 
glad sadness, without a shadow of reproach in his eye, seems 
to say, ' Father, forgive them ; ' ' Come unto me, and I will 
give you rest.' I am not particularly sensitive ; but, when 
I looked at the picture, I confess the tears came, and I was 
obliged to drop my veil to hide my emotion. I wish we 
could have seen it together. I wish I could be with you 
to-day. But I hope to return soon ; and remember me 
always as your true friend. ^t p ,, 

The study of political science had always interested 
her ; and, at this period, she took a deeper interest 
than before in the history of politics in our own 
country, acquainting herself with the leading views of 
the principal statesmen, and making herself familiar 
with the various interests and resources of different 
parts of the country. Her father had long been in 
the habit of reading and conversing with her upon 



MEMOIR. 29 

these themes, and always found her interested, and 
desirous of information ; while, in his more personal 
business affairs, she was ever a ready counsellor and 
helper; by her clearness of mind, and good judgment, 
often rendering efficient aid. 

In November, 1849, her sister Anna married the 
Hon. Elbridge Gerry, then a member of Congress 
from the State of Maine ; and, in December of that 
year, she accompanied Mrs. Gerry to Washington, 
and passed several months. A new world was there 
opened to her ; and, while its mere fashion and gayety 
possessed little enduring attraction for her, she enjoyed 
keenly much of the society into which she was intro- 
duced, and formed some friendships that lasted 
through the remainder of life. 

Probably no city embraces within the same com- 
pass so great a variety of character and talent, displays 
so many conflicting views, or exhibits so strong intel- 
lectual and moral contrasts, as are to be found at the 
seat of our national government ; and to our friend, 
with her quick perception and appreciating mind, 
these opportunities for the study of characters and 
principles were not lost. Of the many letters written 
at this period, evincing the interest with which these 
new scenes were fraught, and replete with life, none 
remain. 

The succeeding summer was passed at home ; and, 
in the following winter, she again visited Washington, 
but with a less ardent anticipation than at first. 



30 MEMOIR. 

Shortly after, she suffered from an attack of illness, 
not considered serious at the time, but which resulted 
in a slight lameness and a general debility, that made 
her desirous to return home early in the spring. 
Doubtless this was the first appearance of that fatal 
disease which gradually spread throughout her whole 
frame, weakening her constitution, disabling one 
member after another, until, finally, it attacked and 
destroyed the vital powers. 

The summer of 1851 was passed at Rye Beach; 
sea-bathing, and the bracing air of the ocean, being 
regarded as the best means for invigorating her health. 
While there, though debarred from walking, she suf- 
fered little pain, and found continued employment in 
her favorite studies ; but, as winter approached, the 
disease increased, and walking, even with the use of 
crutches, became impossible. Her cheerfulness, how- 
ever, continued undiminished ; and books, pen, and 
pencil, together with the use of her needle, occupied 
every hour. But finding, at length, mental applica- 
tion, for any long period, impossible to her, as she 
was wholly debarred from taking exercise, she turned 
her attention to the painting of flowers and leaves 
from nature, and also to the copying of birds from 
Audubon's beautiful collection ; and, by her self- 
acquired skill in these pursuits, attained a degree of 
proficiency rarely surpassed. Until the last months 
of her life, they proved a source of pleasure and inte- 
rest to her and to her friends ; and the love of flowers 



MEMOIR. 31 

— from childhood a natural taste, and cultivated with 
growing years — continued until the last. 

Her sisters were unwearied in their endeavors to 
obtain for her the choicest specimens of wild flowers ; 
and her room was always their first resort on the 
return from any little excursion ; for they were 
always sure of her sympathy in their pleasures and 
recreations. 

Months and years passed on, with no outward 
change, save the passing of a few weeks at the sea- 
shore, and the greater part of one summer at the Isle 
of Shoals, in the vain endeavor to rally her sinking 
strength. The following note was written at this 
time : — 

"Isle of Shoals, July 1, 1852. 

" I should have answered your kind note before, had I 
felt able so to do ; but I have been just in that state when 
even signing my name would have been a burden. You 
praise me too highly. ... I know, perfectly well, my own 
impulsive temperament ; but I trust, that, at last, we shall 
all be purified. . . . 

" I have been reading Wesley's Life ; but I hardly know 
how one can live through such conflicts of body and mind. 
Surely it is not necessary that the kingdom of heaven should 
be taken, as it were, by storm. Our Saviour's followers 
were afflicted with no paroxysms at his preaching, like 
Wesley's disciples ; but, in a psychological point of view, 
such things are worthy of study. I want you to read the 
work. 

" I suppose you have enjoyed much the visit of . 

Is it not delightful to be with those who have similar tastes 
and principles ? 



32 ME M () I R. 

" It seems to me, I have never thought so much of the 
frivolity of the general intercourse of society as I have since 
I have been sick. I wish you were here to spend a quiet 
afternoon with me. 

" If I write but little, my heart is warm towards you, and 

always will be. 

" Yours affectionately, 

" C. E. J." 

Slowly but surely the disease progressed, causing 
constant pain, and, at times, extreme suffering. The 
last time that she was able to attend the services of 
public worship was in October, 1851, during the 
Annual Convention of Unitarians, held that year in' 
Portsmouth. She often longed to attend church, and 
yearned for the quickening, soothing influences de- 
rived from the social religious services, which the 
mere reading of a sermon, however impressive, can 
rarely impart ; but this privilege was withheld from 
her through her long sickness. 

The nervous suffering incident to the disease, in- 
creased by the inability to take any exercise; the 
long, sleepless, restless nights ; and the physical 
exhaustion that followed, rendering any continued 
mental application impossible, — this only increasing 
the difficulty, — were far harder to bear than any 
amount of actual, acute pain. " All the pain that I 
have suffered," she once said, " great as it has been, 
has been nothing in comparison with this nervous 
restlessness, which I cannot describe, and the haunt- 
ing fear that my mind is growing weak as my bodily 



M E M O I R. 33 

powers decay. This is the hardest trial to bear with 
true submission." 

Every kindness which the most watchful parental 
love could render, every alleviation which medical 
skill or wealth could procure, every attention from 
friends near and distant, soothed and cheered the 
sufferer ; but no human power or friendship could 
prevent the slow but sure progress of the disease, or 
give sleep and rest during the long, wearisome, wake- 
ful nights. Kind and devoted attendants were ever 
with her ; and to those who so faithfully ministered 
to her, month after month and year after year, she 
became strongly attached, always speaking of them 
with love and kindness ; while the closing weeks of 
her life evinced how truly, on their part, such attach- 
ment was reciprocated. 

Six years passed slowly on, little change taking 
place in the mere outward life of the invalid. Durino- 
a part of the time, she was able to ride a short dis- 
tance each day; but even this exercise became at 
length too great for her enfeebled frame. Though 
entirely excluded from the outer world, and often 
unable for days in succession to see even her nearest 
friends, her social sympathies continued true, warm, 
and active ; and the ready jest, the playful repartee, 
the amusing anecdote, made her a cheerful friend to 
all. Thoughtfulness for others marked many a day of 
weariness ; and when most would have considered them- 
selves excused, by pain and weakness, from attempt- 



34 



MEMOIR. 



ing any pursuit, she would paint a flower, or make 
some fancy article for a friend, or write, if only with a 
pencil, a note of kind remembrance. The following 
were written at this period : — 

"Jan. 1, 1856. 

" My dear , I cannot too warmly express my 

thanks for the beautiful present, this morning received ; 
one of your proofs of love, for which I am truly grateful. 
Truly, no friendsliip is lasting but that which points to 
another home ; and I hope and believe that ours is of that 
nature. I trust my long confinement will not be misused ; 
but that, if health is granted mo again, I may labor with 
you and with all true laborers in my Master's vineyard 
more earnestly than before. Would that we could feel 
more dee])ly, that this life is but the short preparation- 
season for a higher and better ! Strengthen and encourage 

my oft-failing purposes. 

" Your affectionate C ." 



"Oct. 20, 1856. 
" 1 was extremely sorry that I could not see you this 
afternoon ; but I was weary and nervous. I wanted to talk 
with you. . . . Life is sometimes so wearisome, that, I am 
sure, both physical and spiritual wants urge us to seek com- 
fort and consolation where alone they c'cm be found, — above. 
My own life, of late, has been a suffering one ; but still I feel 
that it has been g-ood for me to have been thus afflicted. 
My patience and fortitude have at least been tried and 
strengthened. . . . There are many sacrifices a confirmed 
invalid must always be making : still, I try to feel that all is 
for the best. It is a great blessing to be able to do good, 
consciously and actively. You have my constant sympathy. 

" Yours affectionately." 



MEMOIR. 35 

Kind gifts were often bestowed in secret ; and the 
desire to do good grew strong and deep, as the ability 
for active labor lessened. She took much interest in 
the effort perseveringly made by a few ladies to intro- 
duce sewing into some of our public schools ; and 
also contributed to the support of a private school, 
devoted solely to the teaching of this essential branch 
of female education. " Ah ! you do not appreciate 
the blessing of being able to labor actively for others," 
she once said. " You would not find me so often 
occupied with painting and fancy-work, if I had 
strength for any higher exertion : but I am glad to 
do even this ; it makes me forget my pain." But 
the following lines express more truly her secret 
thought : — 

" ' Eager for work, God knows, my day with waiting wears, 
And I bring nothing home at eventide ; ' 
When, lo ! the Spirit to my murmurs cried, — 
' Seest thou how the father for his children cares ? 
Some wakening unto toil before the early dawn. 
He scarce thinks gain enough e'en when the light is gone ; 
But for the little ones the choicest garden reaps, 
Bids them rejoice, consoles them when they weep, 
And finds serenest pleasure when they sleep ; — 
So the dear Lord above his larger household keeps : 
For some he will reward for labor ; other some. 
As dear as all the rest, he keeps for love alone.' " 

The trial it caused her to give up, one after another, 
her favorite pursuits, and all close application and 
study, few knew. Yet, even at this time, she read 



36 MEMOIR. 

many works on political economy and moral philoso- 
phy : for her mind constantly craved new food for 
thought and reflection ; and such books as often 
form the amusement of the invalid possessed few 
attractions to her. 

When she was able to see her friends, young or old, 
she welcomed them with pleasure, and entered into 
their joys and trials with a true sympathy ; for- 
getful, for the time, of her own privations. She was 
not unmindful of the many blessings vouchsafed to 
her, and often expressed the wish that every sufferer 
possessed the comforts granted to her so abundantly. 
Her mental resources were a constant support, and 
the inflexible power of her will prevented her from 
yielding to the enervating effects of such protracted 
and severe suffering. 

For months, and even years, the hope of at least a 
partial restoration to health and activity led her to 
seek with eagerness the slightest prospect of relief, 
though she was early aware that the power of walk- 
ing, as in former years, would be a blessing denied to 
her. " Still I shall be able to enjoy and do much," 
she would sometimes say ; " and, if my mind is only 
caj)able of exertion, I will not repine." 

The interest she continued to take in literary and 
artistic pursuits, even to the last few months of her 
life, and the clearness, brightness, and activity of 
mind evinced amid all her sufferings, will be evident 
from the following letters, which derive additional 



MEMOIR. 37 

interest from the fact that they were among the hist 
ever written : — 

"Jan. 21, 1857. 

" Your kind letter was duly received ; and I should have 
answered it ere this, had my health permitted. . . . 

" I suppose that your last volume will permit you some 
range in the fields of classic English literature ; and perhaps 
you might select some pieces from each reign, beginning 
with Elizabeth. You could not, surely, neglect the prince 
of poets, — Shakspeare ; nor, later, those peers in pliilo- 
sophical poetry, — Milton and Wordsworth. I like some 
selections from the comic dramatists ; as, for instance, from 
the ' School for Scandal,' ' She Stoops to Conquer,' <fec. ; 
and I remember with what interest I read, as a child, Par- 
nell's ' Hermit,' and the story of ' Le Fevre.' The great 
difficulty would be to me, not what to select, but what to 
exclude. 

" You remark, very truly, that English descriptions are 
not applicable to American objects, even if they bear the 
same name. The American bluebird is most like the Eng- 
lish robin in its 'habits ; yet a child would only think of our 
robin, in reading the English description, because it bears 
the same name. There is the same difficulty in regard 
to the cuckoo : our cow-pen bunting answers most to the 
English description ; and, sweet as are Wordsworth's and 
Logan's descriptions, I do not know how they could be 
used on that account. There are, however, many birds 
described, that can be used. The English sky-lark is very 
like the American ; and you will recollect Hogg's sweet 
song, and Wordsworth's and Shelley's incomparable poems. 
Wordsworth has also a pretty poem on the wren's nest and 
the thrush. But I hope you will not entirely neglect the 
nightingale, the references to that bird are so numerous 
and beautiful, although there is no American bird exactly 



38 MEMOIR. 

like it. Our mocking-bird is, as Audubon says, superior to 
it in the variety and sweetness of its tones ; and you might 
copy his description in a note. Can I ever forget my plea- 
sure in reading Crashaw's translation of Strada's duel, so 
rich in imagery and diction, or Keats's sweet ode to the 
love-lorn bird ? Cowper has also noticed many animals ; 
and you will recollect Miss Baillie's pretty poem to her 
kitten. 

" It is even more difficult to translate English plants than 
animals to our shores ; for I should ignore the daisy, as it 
describes nothing to an American child. But violets and 
roses are common to both climes ; and I remember some 
pretty love-songs to the rose, beginning with Lovelace and 
Fanshawe. 

" Our American poets are sadly neglectful of nature ; but 
Bryant has some verses to the ' Fringed Gentian ; ' Miss 
Gould, to the ' Trailing Arbutus : ' and there are many to 
the ' Forget-me-not,' although that is an exotic, and proba- 
bly unknown to most of those who write about it. New 
Hampshire boasts some few ladies who have paid attention 
to the rarities of her stony soil, as you may see by looking 
over ' The New-Hampshire Book ; ' and one lady has ven- 
tured to sing the praises of the burdock. 

It is singular how much the early English poets loved and 
praised the marigold : — 

' The marigold that goes to bed with the sun, 
And with him rises weeping.' 

' Her eyes, hke marigolds, had sheathed their light, 
And, canopied in darkness, sweetly lay, 
Till thejr might open to adorn the day.' 

' Hark ! the lark,' &c. 

' And winking marybuds begin 

To ope their golden eyes. 
And every thing that pretty bin, — 

My lady sweet, arise ! ' 



M E M O I R. 39 

And you will remember Beaumont and Fletcher's beautiful 
verses, where this flower is mentioned, beginning — 

' Upon a hilly bank her head she cast, 
On which the bower of vain-delight was built,' &c. 

Again : — 

' The early morn lets out the peeping day, 
And strews his path with golden marigolds ; 
The moon grows wan, and stars fly all away, 
Whom Lucifer shuts up in wonted folds.' 

You will also remember Keats's pretty invocation to this 
flower, and the lines commencing — 

' When, with a serious musing, I behold 
The grateful and obsequious marigold.' 

The marigold is only one of the flowers so carefully noted 
and so exquisitely painted by the English poets. 

" A few words more, and I have done, if you have pro- 
ceeded so far as this. . . . Poetry is my passion, and, I 
believe, my talent, although I have written very little, and 
published scarcely any thing ; for I know nothing of pub- 
lishers or editors." 

"April 1, 1857. 

" I wish to write to you to-day ; for my health has been 
so poor lately, that I fear it may be worse, — and then 
adieu to every thing agreeable ! . . . 

" What can I say with regard to your selections, when I 
do not know the limits of your work, and when, after all, it 
must be so much a work of taste ? You ought to have 
enough that is new to make it fresh and taking, and enough 
that is old to defy criticism. Of course, you cannot expect 
to take in all that is good and interesting. 

" I scarcely dare mention the marigold again ; for I must 
confess I do not know who wrote the piece. I have a fancy 
that it is from Quarles ; but I have not his works, — so I 
cannot discover. It is one of the poems of the old English 



40 MEMOIR. 

poets ; and I looked through Herrick and others for it in 
vain. The truth is, that I should not have quoted it, if I 
had not thought that you would know the author. The 
real marigold has, as you say, a disagreeable odor : but the 
color is very rich ; and then it opens to the sun, and turns 
all day to the god, closing at sunset ; and, at sunrise, the 
dew lies much more thickly upon its leaves than upon other 
flowers. The dandelion is prettier, with its soft, feathery 
centre ; but I do not think it so rich. I think the mari- 
gold was held sacred to the Virgin in old times, as its rays 
were presumed to resemble those around the head of the 
Madonna. 

" It seems to me, that you, as well as other tourists, 
rather depreciate our scenery ; but I suppose it requires 
not only education and leisure, but a life-long acquaintance 
with natural objects, really to appreciate such. I was born 
in the country, and a good portion of my young life was 
passed at my grandmother's farm in Deerfield. The house 
was situated on high ground, in the centre of an amphi- 
theatre of hills ; and many a morning have I watched the 
sunrise, gilding the horizon miles and miles away. I know 
all the trials and exertions of a poor New-Hampshire farmer, 
who lives, as they say, by ' selling his disadvantages ; ' and 
I think that the poverty and endurance of this life has 
endeared it to me, or rather that it has made me more 
attentive to the surroundings. 

" The warm, showery days of old England cannot be 
more lovely than our days in June ; and what can equal 
our October weather, when the air is like exhilarating gas ? 
while all allow that our foliage surpasses that of Europe in 
its variety and richness. Then our skies — tell me what 
can compare with them, in their ever-varying clouds, chan- 
ging as rapidly in form as in color ? The sky, as an object 
of beauty and poetry, is open to every man on earth ; and I 
am sure that no artist should ever be weary in studying it. 



MEMOIR. 41 

Sometimes I imagine that some portions of its shifting pano- 
rama are made for me alone, as no eye but mine may look 
upon them ; and positively, in my selfishness, I do not 
always call attention to sky-scenery which is exceedingly 
beautiful, as I want to keep it all to myself. 

" I have been reading lately Comte's ' Traite de Legisla- 
tion,' and like it very much, — so much so, that I began to 
take notes of the volume upon slavery ; but my sisters pro- 
tested so strongly against the exertion, that I was obliged 
to desist. I shall procure White's ' History,' if I go away ; 
and I think that this summer I shall attend principally to 
botany. 

" Whenever you have leisure, you may be assured that I 
shall be most happy to hear from you. I have but little to 
offer in return ; but my gratitude may be some poor com- 
pensation. 

" Yours truly, " C. E. J." 

« May 8, 1857. 

" Your kind remembrance was duly received ; and you 
will please accept my most grateful thanks for it. 

" I like the selections very much, and think them ex- 
tremely poetical and beautiful. Religious poetry is often 
tame, unpoetical, and bigoted ; and I presume that it is a 
difficult kind of composition, after the perfect models we 
have in the Psalmists. 

" One of my friends sent me lately some French philoso- 
phical works to read : but my physician absolutely forbade 
any thing of the kind, and will not permit me any books 
but natural history or botany ; so that, of necessity, I have 
taken up with reading the history of insects. I have, of 
course, a feminine dislike to bugs, and can make as much 
fuss as any one over a spider ; but I have been delighted 
with the ingenuity and skill of the curious little creatures I 
have studied. It seems to me that the labors of a naturalist 

6 



42 MEMOIR. 

are exceedingly cheering and pleasing. There is always a 
certain anxiety and doubt about our speculations in philoso- 
phy, and even in social questions ; but we are satisfied with 
the perfect lives and labors of animals. I have procured a 
beautiful edition of White's ' Natural History of Selborne.' 
" The wild-flowers have come ; and you cannot imagine 
how much I wish for better health to paint them. I have 
painted an arbutus ; which is a lovely flower, fresh as the 
Spring herself. I scarcely dare look forward to the beauti- 
ful butterflies : but you know that hope never deserts us ; 
and, notwithstanding my suffering nights, I am quite gay 

in the morning. 

" Truly yours, ." 

" July 6, 1857. 

" Please accept this little bouquet as a remembrance 
from my garden. I have wished, two or three times, to 
send you some wild-flowers ; but they faded too quickly. 
I hope that you will indulge in some recreation in the 
country this summer. I wished a change extremely for 
myself; hut my destiny has forbidden thus far. 

" I have had, however, a fine treat lately, in painting 
some magnificent moths. There are so many things to 
paint, a painter never wishes to die. I do not know that it 
is exactly right for me to say that I could live happily for 
a thousand years with these pleasing amusements ; but you 
will understand me. 

" Please excuse the pencil, as I cannot write with a pen 

to-night. 

"Yours, &Q. ." 

The winter of 1856-7 passed without bringing 
the expected accession of strength ; and, early in 
the spring, it was evident to her physician and her 
nearest friends, that the new form the disease had 



MEMOIR. 



43 



assumed must terminate life, — probably in a few 
months, certainly within a year. Her sufferings for 
weeks and months were extreme ; yet, in the inter- 
vals of pain, there was so much of brightness and 
elasticity of spirit, and so ready an interest in the 
little events of daily life around her, as often to 
deceive the eye of affection, and to lead one to forget 
that her course on earth was so nearly run. 

She was not, however, self-deceived ; and, from 
brief remarks made from time to time, we believe that 
all hope of recovery gradually faded from her mind, 
and that, for several months, she was aware of the 
approaching fatal termination of her disease, though 
she seldom expressly referred to it. 

The following poems appear to have been com- 
posed within the last few months of her life ; the 
second being written in a very faint, trembling hand, 
and being the last words ever traced by her pen : — 

DEATH. 

" Pain-killing Death, chief of the angels, come ! 
As the king's herald bids war's tumults cease, 
With the sweet majesty of one bringing peace ; 
Come in such state to our sufferer, come ! 
Rich with the promise of joys evermore, 
As of past pleasures long gone before ; 
And, as men hail who may truce-bearing come, — 
Men who scarce glory of victories won, 
When the gray twilight makes all look undone, 
Seeking repose, — so blest to the weary, come ! 
And, though harsh thy trump, the ear soon shall own 
How sweet angels echo thy voice round the throne." 



44 MEMOIR. 

" I shall lie down in the grave. None will toil for me, 

While I, beneath the mould, unchanged one garment wear ; 

And still the scene will vary, and I shall not see ; 

And sweetest sounds Avill mingle, and I shall not hear. 

In silence and in rest I shall be hid from sight, — 

Hid from the loveliness which was once my delight ; 

And hearts as dear as mine will beat with love and joy. 

O'er faces that I love, the shades of grief will steal ; 

And wrongs will grow : but wrongs I loathe, Truth will destroy ; 

And I, changed into dust, shall neither know nor feel 

Of bitter fate. O earth ! how could I yield my breath, 

How die, if heaven were not the dear reward of death ! " 

Throughout this long period of slow decline, as 
the outward form faded, the spirit was renewed day 
by day. Her belief in God's providential care and 
love grew deeper and stronger ; and her trust in the 
Father's mercy, as manifested in the life and death of 
Christ, and in the assurance of immortality confirmed 
by his resurrection, became, more and more, her sup- 
port and hope. 

She rarely spoke of her deeper feelings, save when 
an opportunity occurred of being alone with a single 
friend ; and then there sometimes seemed a slight dis- 
trust in the free expression of her religious thoughts 
and purposes, lest she should utter more than she 
really felt. 

For several years it had been her wish and determi- 
nation to unite with the church, and openly to 
express her faith in Christ, through the simple yet 
deeply significant rites of the Saviour's own appoint- 
ment. She felt that it was a duty and a privilege 



MEMOIR. 45 

thus to follow his example, and obey his dying 
request ; and she wished thus to bear open and free 
testimony to the reality of her faith, and her gratitude 
for the infinite love pledged for her support and 
guidance. 

" Should I ever recover, it will be the first act that 
I shall perform ; for I feel that it is the least testi- 
mony I can bear to the love and truth of Christ," 
she once remarked. Yet, month after month, the 
execution of this purpose was postponed, partly from 
the lingering hope that she might yet again be enabled 
to attend church, and there unite with Christian 
friends in these holy rites, and partly from the fear 
that others might regard the act of self-consecration 
as the result of mere temporary excitement, caused 
by long sickness. Mere emotional states never 
furnished her standard of self-judgment; and the 
depth and sincerity of her faith were evinced by 
the calm fortitude and self-possession of her clos- 
ing days rather than by any strong expression of 
feeling. 

Week by week, one after another of her pursuits 
and occupations had to be given up ; limb after limb 
lost its wonted power ; the easy-chair, in which she 
had often found relief from a reclining posture, was 
left vacant ; and, for several weeks, she was confined 
almost wholly to her bed, unable to move save by the 
assistance of the skilful, devoted, and unwearied care 
of her mother or nurse. 



46 



MEMOIR. 



On the Friday morning preceding her departure, 
after a restless night, she called one of her sisters to 
her side, and expressed the wish to see her friend and 
pastor, Dr. Peabody. " I wish," she said, " to be 
baptized, and to receive the communion. I have long 
thought of it, but, for the last few weeks, have been 
too weak to bear the excitement of the service ; and 
this morning, when I awoke free from pain, it seemed 
as if I heard God's voice speaking to me, commanding 
me thus to do." 

The solemn service was performed in the presence 
of her parents and sisters, her only brother not having 
arrived from New York. At its close, she expressed 
her satisfaction in having been enabled to fulfil the 
long-cherished wish of her heart, and, toward evening, 
remarked, " I have had a peaceful day." 

The next three days were a period of the greatest 
suffering. Once she remarked, " How much patience 
I need ! " And it was evident that she was striving 
to bear with quiet submission whatever God should 
appoint. 

During the previous week, she had requested her 
writing-desk, work-basket, paintings, &c., to be 
brought to her bedside, and, with her own hand, 
arranged all, as if fully conscious that she was putting 
them away for ever, and that her emaciated fingers 
would never again take the well-used pen or pencil. 
She also gave directions for the arrangement of her 
books and drawers ; and then seemed quietly, and in 



MEMOIR. ' 47 

full consciousness, to be awaiting the closing hour. 
Yet, amid all her protracted and weary sufferings, 
there was no longing for death as a mere release from 
bodily pain and infirmity, — rather a shrinking from 
it ; for there was a strong innate love of life, which 
led her to cling to this world so long as any power of 
enjoyment or improvement remained. She felt that 
there was much to live for, mentally and spiritually, 
— much to do both for her own improvement and for 
the benefit of others. Her ties to life were strong : 
for she had never known the desolation of the earthly 
household ; and her removal made the first void in 
the little home circle, for so many years undivided. 
The first-born of earth was to be the first-born inha- 
bitant of heaven, — the first to repose on the Saviour's 
breast. 

On Monday night, she asked to have something 
read or repeated, to make her forget her sufferings ; 
and, when her mother commenced the lines, — 

" When I can read my title clear 
To mansions in the skies," — 

and then paused to see if she listened to the words, 
she immediately took up the verse, and repeated the 
entire hymn. She also spoke of near and dear friends, 
and of the constant kindness received throughout her 
long sickness. Towards morning, her sufferings in- 
creased ; and at seven o'clock on Tuesday, Dec. 1, 
she ceased to breathe ; and the spirit, so long fettered 



48 



M E M O I R. 



to the worn and weary body, was kindly and for ever 
released. 

" Dear as thou wert, and justly dear, 
We would not weep for thee : 
One thought shall check the starting tear ; 
It is — that thou art free." 

Loving- hands closed her eyes, and sweet and fragrant 
flowers were strewn around her by those dear to her 
in life. A cross of flowers lay upon her breast, em- 
blem of that cross of suffering so long and nobly 
borne, and of that divine power through which alone 
the victory was won. No gloomy darkness filled the 
room : but, surrounded by the beautiful flowers she 
had loved so well, she lay as in a quiet slumber; 
every trace of pain and suffering having passed from 
her countenance, now speaking only of calm repose. 

At such an hour, to what voice can we listen, save 
to His who has for ever given the victory over death, 
saying, " Whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall 
never die " \ To whom can the sorrowing turn 
for comfort and support, save to Him who wept at 
the grave of his friend, and who says to every grief- 
stricken heart, " Come unto me, and I will give you 
rest " ? Where shall the soul look for tender and holy 
sympathy under the burden of desolation and sorrow, 
save to Him who through his cross, as well as by his 
lips, has assured us, that it is through suffering that 
the soul is perfected, — is made strong, patient, trust- 



MEMOIR. 49 

ful ; and who gently whispers, " Let not your heart 
be troubled : in my Father's house are many man- 
sions " ? 

On Friday, December 4, the mortaj form was borne 
to its last quiet home, and placed where the pure and 
holy light of the early morning, and the calm, still 
shadows of the sunset hour, should rest upon the 
spot ; and should alike, in their blended tones of hope 
and calm repose, lift the heart above the clouds of 
earth, to where there is no night and no parting, and 
where the believer's home is ever radiant with the 
light of God's eternal love. Flowers were placed 
upon the grave, as if the lost of earth were hence- 
forth to be associated with the beautiful creations she 
had loved so well; and a voice seemed to breathe 
through the pure, clear air of that bright winter's 
afternoon, " She is not here : she is risen." New 
fields of thought, new spheres of duty, new and 
deeper experiences of the depth of God's wisdom 
and compassion, and of the Saviour's tender love, are 
now opened to her enlarged, adoring sight. Purified 
from earth, she stands, we trust, among those who, 
having come " out of great tribulation, have washed 
their robes and made them white in the blood of the 
Lamb." 

The influence of such a character ceases not with 
the mere earthly existence ; for it bears within itself 
a vitality and a power which must and will endure, 
quickening and elevating other hearts, and imparting 



50 MEMOIR. 

a firmer faith in God, in Christ, and in immortality ; 
while, to those nearest and dearest in the now broken 
home-circle, her voice will ever whisper, in blended 
tones of loving earnestness and gentle entreaty, 
" Come up hither." 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 



In this age, few or no memoirs are written ; and biographies 
have become mere autobiographies, in which the subject of 
the memoir speaks for himself through his letters and writ- 
ings, while the duty of the biographer is confined to hang- 
ing these together on a chronological thread with a few 
explanatory remarks. This manner of writing biography 
has its advantages ; for the biographer does not mould the 
life of another to suit preconceived theories, or make it 
the medium of ungrounded prejudices ; and the few facts 
stated are true. But it has disadvantages. Every man's 
life has manifold relations. He has domestic and social 
connections ; a past and a present, with their amount of 
cultivation, and their living principle of progress. All these 
go to develop his reason, and to awaken the emotions of his 
heart. But such influences need an interpreter in his pub- 
lic acts and his writings. 

Again : a man's writings are often the result rather of an 
intellectual conviction than the persuasion of the moral 
nature. For instance, how many sceptics have led pure 
and honorable lives, in spite of their false theories ! It is 
supposed, indeed, that a man's letters are a sufficient indica- 
tion of his domestic life, and his principles of conduct. But 



54 LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 

they are, at best, only a faint delineation of his life, full of 
professions without action, generally on subjects of local 
interest ; and the man himself lives, as it were, behind them. 
If we had all the letters that Dr. Johnson ever wrote, should 
we know half as much of his littleness and greatness as we 
do from the random, undistinguishing notes of Boswell ? Do 
we not feel that we should know more from an hour's con- 
versation with a friend, — in which his eye, his voice, his 
manner, all his personalities, talk to us, — than we should 
from years of correspondence ? Modern biography neglects 
the desire we feel to know the man as well as the writer ; 
and appears to consider them as in no way distinct, or as 
throwing no light upon each other. 

We were induced to make these remarks on reading the 
Life of Niebuhr, the great Eoman historian, although the 
biography is unusually good of its kind. But we could 
ill spare an incident from so good and noble a life, espe- 
cially as Niebuhr found the inspiration for his labors in his 
domestic relations, and as they influenced his opinions and 
progress in a remarkable degree. We only wisli the book 
were accessible to the general English reader.* 

Barthold George Niebuhr was born August 27, 1776, 
at Copenhagen. His father was the celebrated traveller, as 
remarkable for simplicity of character as he was for his 
perseverance and his shrewdness of intellect. Niebuhr once 
said, in speaking of his father and himself, that two literary 
men were hardly to be expected in one family, and that he 
had no hope of his own son's becoming a third. It is cer- 



This was written before the announcement of the English translation. 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 55 

tainly true that the higher orders of genius — the poets, 
painters, and orators of tlie world — are to be predicted from 
no family : yet a large measure of intellectual power often 
characterizes one family for centuries ; as, for instance, the 
Coruncanii at Rome, who were always as noted for their 
legal attainments as the Valerni for democratic principles. 
Niebuhr was right in thinking that his own peculiar gifts 
could not be entailed. 

But to return : his mother was the daughter of a dis- 
tinguished Thuringian physician, an amiable, affectionate, 
yet timid woman ; and Niebuhr inherited her disposition, 
as well as his father's clearness of intellect. In 1778, the 
family removed to Meldorf in South Ditmarsch, which, like 
many other cities in Germany, had been distinguished for 
its resistance to the encroachments of the feudal lords. 
In Niebuhr's day, it retained privileges properly of Roman 
origin ; and he often referred his quick appreciation of 
the institutions of Rome to his knowledge of the old Dit- 
marsch constitutions and laws. The country was low, 
marshy, uncultivated, and unhealthy ; and the gloomy, 
lifeless scenery inspired no love for the beautiful, either in 
nature or art, — a want which Niebuhr felt and lamented 
in after-years. 

In his childhood, young Niebuhr showed great powers of 
mind ; and his naturally delicate constitution was impaired 
by his studies, the unfavorable climate of Ditmarsch, and 
the injudicious petting of his mother, so that it was not until 
late in life that he enjoyed a tolerable degree of health. 
Both parents looked forward to a literary career as the only 
course for their son, without consulting his tastes or consti- 
tution ; and they early commenced a forcing process, from 
whicli no one but Niebuhr would have recovered. This 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 

purely intellectual education was extremely one-sided ; and, 
to the last day of his life, he regretted the want of the 
simple religious faith which is the most precious legacy 
that childhood leaves to manhood and old age. Neither 
Niebuhr's father, nor he himself in later years, seemed to 
know, that the soul has a latent growth, and is jealous of 
constant watching ; like a tree which can need only free- 
dom, air, and a judicious protection, to attain to its natural 
perfect beauty ; but which, by constant pruning and train- 
ing, will become only a hot-house wonder, or the dwarf 
curiosity of the garden. 

In 1792, he was sent to Hamburg to study under Profes- 
sor Biisch. This was his first separation from home ; and 
he was afflicted with such a bitter home-sickness, that his 
father unwillingly consented that he should return. " Ne- 
ver," he afterwards wrote, " can I forget those days ; nor 
dare I remember them." 

In 1794, he went to Kiel to study, where more enlarged 
views and more agreeable circumstances prevented a return 
of the acute suffering that had distressed him at Hamburg. 
Here he became acquainted with Professor Hensler, a man 
of knowledge and feeling, with whose family he after- 
wards became connected by marriage. Philology and his- 
tory thus early became his favorite studies ; but his nervous 
system was so intensely excitable, and his imagination so 
vivid, that it was doubtful if he would not become a mere 
enthusiast. It is true, indeed, that youth is the season of 
Utopian dreams : and it is well that it is so ; for, as Lord 
Erskine says, " every young man should begin as a radical, 
as at all events he will end as a conservative." Age comes 
but too soon to clip the wings of hope, and to steal the color- 
ing from the sky that wooes its giddy wing. But Niebuhr 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 57 

had not only tlie confident faith and aspirations of youth, but 
he had also acquired a habit of vague revery, in which the 
soul acts as the somnambulist moves, in a kind of waking 
sleep, — a sleep which exhausts the powers of the body and 
mind. "We remember that Dr. Channing regrets having 
had a similar habit in his youth. We fear that it is only 
too common with the studious, when nature is unwisely 
taxed, and it points to physical exertion as the best re- 
straint on the too-exuberant fancy. After long years of 
courageous effort, Niebuhr was scarcely able to conquer this 
idle habit. But nothing could be more beautiful than his 
life as a son and brother. He regarded his parents with the 
most devoted, affectionate reverence ; and there is something 
truly charming in his simple letters to them. In 1794, he 
wrote from Kiel, "In seven weeks I shall see you. I think 
with joy of the time, and with still greater joy of the day 
when I shall be more worthy of you. Believe me, I have 
thought, in some moments of regret, that it would be better 
for me, even if it gave me pain, not to see you for the pre- 
sent, but to wait until I am more deserving. But now I 
trust you will receive me tenderly, with the conviction that 
I did what I could, and that I bring a little more home with 
me than I carried away." He writes freely of all his plans 
and his acquaintances ; and we are amused at his simplicity 
in speaking of his introduction to Amelia Behrens, after- 
wards his wife : — 

" Although I appear to disadvantage in other company, it is 
woi'se every day with me in the eyes of women ; for, out of mere 
shyness, I cannot easily talk to women : and, since I believe my- 
self intolerable tQ them, they are disagreeable to me. But yes- 
terday I took courage, and ventured to talk to Madame Hensler, 
and Amelia Behrens, her sister. I should be unthankful and dis- 



58 LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 

honest, if I did not own that they were sufficiently well disposed 
towards me to make me trust them, if my shyness were not so 
deeply rooted." 

Ill 1796, he received and accepted the proposition from 
Count Schimmelman, the Danish minister of finance, to be- 
come his private secretary ; and immediately entered into a 
world of business and gayety. He always regretted that he 
had so early left a student's life ; yet this course seems to 
have been best for a mind already absorbed by ideal fancies, 
and was the wisest preparation for an historian of the in- 
tricate civil as well as political relations of a great people. 
He saw many strangers at Schimmelman's house. His own 
life was essentially practical and active ; but he was far 
from being happy. His time was dissipated by the hollow 
yet polished gayety of courtiers, and he found no sympathy 
in his earnest hopes and plans for improvement. Schim- 
melman himself attracted his warmest love and admiration ; 
but he was less pleased with his wife, who seemed to think 
that her station gave her paramount claims upon his atten- 
tion. To escape the distraction of Schimmelman's house, 
he accepted the office of librarian to one of the libraries in 
the city ; but he finally left his employer, and set sail, in 
June, 1798, for London. He hoped, by a long stay in Eng- 
land, to improve his knowledge of the language and insti- 
tutions of one of the most important States in Europe ; and 
he trusted that the practical life of the Englisli would hap- 
pily correct the excessive idealism of his own character. 
Nor was he mistaken. He had become betrothed to Amelia 
Bchrens, in whom sweetness was blended with a gentle dig- 
nity. Niebuhr said that she was his ideal of a Roman woman 
in the best days of the republic. Thenceforward there was 
one object on which his heart could rest in the fullest con- 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 59 

fideiice and sympathy, and his character grew in manliness 
and self-dependence. Indeed, Niebuhr's inspiration arose 
from his heart ; and he acknowledged that he needed no 
other impulse to labor, and no other reward, than the genial 
sympathy of his wife. 

In his letters from England, he constantly complains of 
the hoUowness of society, and the apparent want of feeling 
in the relations of life. It was, indeed, but an apparent 
want ; and age has nothing more to regret than that it has 
lost the power of using those ready expressions of feeling 
which are the peculiar grace of childhood. Young Niebuhr 
made his own aims too often the standard for others, and 
was surprised at their want of sympathy ; and there was 
an impatient longing for an ideal which he scarcely com- 
prehended himself, but which, fortunately, later in life, 
changed into a serious purpose, rather than the vain striv- 
ing for the immediate possession of an object. His labors, 
however, were indefatigable at the universities and in his 
study. 

He proposed to himself, as he writes, " to obtain a more 
accurate idea of the constitution of England ; an exten- 
sive knowledge of its topography ; an acquaintance with 
the common measures, weights, prices, &c. ; information 
of the character, talents, and life of distinguished people ; of 
learned institutions, schools, and education ; of the mode 
of living among different conditions of life ; of the taxes ; 
of the army and fleet ; of banks and business ; of the whole 
literature ; of writers ; of the trade in books ; of the East 
and West Indies." This is but a general sketch of an im- 
mense labor he performed in detail. Nowhere could he 
have better prepared himself for the history of Rome than 
among a free people, restrained by an intelligent, powerful, 



60 LIFE AND CHARACTER OF MIliBUHR. 

and brave aristocracy. In 1799, he returned to Copen- 
hagen, where he soon after received the office of assessor 
in the financial department of the bureau for the East 
Indies, and at the same time a secretaryship, and the head 
post in the department for African affairs, — offices which 
demanded great labor, and for which he received but a 
small salary. But his desires were humble ; and, in May, 
he married Amelia Behrens. lie regarded married life as 
the most sacred of relations, and the highest earthly incen- 
tive to improvement. 

A short time previously to his marriage, he wrote to 
Amelia, " My dear Amelia, I enjoy my happiness with feel- 
ings which are not unworthy of your love. Henceforth, 
idleness and mere inactivity will not be possible ; for, with 
a firm and calm mind, and with a consciousness that I have 
the capacity and the strength for labor, my hope, my 
animation, will grow young again, on whose strength the 
exercise of all that is noble and good depends. A life 
in the soul, — that is the only thing which can make me 
entirely happy." Again : he wrote to Madame Hensler, 
" Amelia's heavenly being and her spiritual love raise 
me above the earth, and separate me, in a certain manner, 
from life." 

The young married couple lived in a quiet, simple way, 
much by themselves ; and in his golden hours of lei- 
sure, which sometimes did not come until late at night, 
Niebuhr industriously pursued his studies in history and 
philology. In those days of hope and jjeace, his mind 
had a clearness and energy for which after-years gave but 
a poor equivalent in greater knowledge and maturer wis- 
dom. He acquitted himself of the duties of his office with 
credit, and the government was not slow to reward and 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 61 

claim the services of so rare a servant. After repeated 
offers for change, he finally accepted from the Prussian 
government a post in the financial department, and arrived 
at Berlin in October, 1806. But Copenhagen had been the 
home of his early married life ; a laborious life, indeed, 
yet full of peace and joy. He had won the esteem of all 
classes there, and he looked forward with anxious fore- 
bodings to his change of residence. A few days after his 
arrival in Berlin, the disastrous battle of Jena was fought ; 
and, from that time, court and people were like a wounded 
deer struggling in vain to escape from its pursuer. Nie- 
buhr had inherited a dislike of the French, and the 
exactions of soldiers flushed with victory were not likely 
to lessen his abhorrence. He gladly labored for the unfor- 
tunate king in the duties imposed upon him ; but he was 
opposed to every concession. Full of energy and hope, he 
did not perceive that the true weakness of Europe was in 
its decayed aristocracy, to which Napoleon struck the just 
yet cruel death-blow. 

After the sad peace of Tilsit, Niebuhr would have retired 
from his public offices ; but, at the express wish of the king, 
he went to Holland to negotiate a loan. His letters give a 
melancholy picture of his journey, in a severe season of the 
year, through bad roads, in constant terror of a lawless 
soldiery, among a timid, disheartened, impoverished people, 
while his wife was suffering from the effects of a recent 
fever. In such scenes he learned all the horrors of the civil 
wars of Rome. His mission to Holland was unsuccessful ; 
but he passed his time profitably in acquiring an accurate 
knowledge of the language, laws, institutions, and litera- 
ture of the country. 

In 1809, he returned to Berlin. In 1810, the king ap- 



62 LIFE AND CHARACJER OF NIEBUHR. 

pointed him professor of history in the college at Berlin in 
place of Miiller, but requested him to assist the minister 
of finance, when called upon, with his counsels and labors. 
On the 1st of November, 1810, he commenced giving his 
Roman lectures. Never before had he been in a situation 
accordant with his tastes and his wishes. He lived in con- 
stant intercourse with such men as Savigny, Buttmann, 
Heindorff, and Schleiermacher ; and his letters are full of 
satisfaction and hopeful energy. Now, as from an eminence 
part-way up the hill of life, he could look back with serene 
pity and pardon on a youth ill at peace with itself and the 
world, struggling with the consciousness of undeveloped 
power and an idle waste of energy, and burdened even by 
the very knowledge to which it was constantly adding. His 
letter to the good and noble Jacobi is a touching confession 
of his early faults, or rather of his peculiarity of mind. He 
always thought that his mind should have had an sesthetical 
training ; but perhaps he mistook a great power of com- 
bining the facts his wonderful memory constantly presented 
him, for the peculiar gift of purely imaginative creation. 
He had no keen sense of the beauties of the fine arts, and, 
as he confessed himself, was almost wanting in a love of 
nature. His imagination enabled him to re-create the 
whole out of the fragments ; but he lacked that divine 
power, which, of its own will, fashions at once the entire 
statue. 

The disturbances in Europe again called him from his 
studies. For some time, he followed the movements of the 
court ; and, in 1814, went to Holland to obtain a loan from 
the English government. This visit was, alas ! even more 
sad than the first. The English ambassadors were ready in 
promises, but equally slow in giving loans to an impoverished 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUIJR. 63 

government. Amelia's cough and ill health increased ; and 
he was obliged to return with only a partial supply of money, 
of which Prussia was in the greatest need. 

Amid the troubles of Europe, which Niebuhr keenly felt, 
private afflictions weighed heavily upon him. His father 
died ; his mother had already preceded him to her long 
home ; Amelia's health declined ; and on the 20th of June, 
1815, her pure spirit returned to its Maker. She had 
borne him no children ; and, with her, every tie to life 
seemed to be broken. She had entered into all his labors 
with the most affectionate interest. Whatever he read or 
wrote she always criticized, and rewarded by her approval. 
In all the dangers of war, she was his courageous com- 
panion ; and, though anxious for his health even to ner- 
vousness, she assented to his joining the Landwehr, or 
National Guard. Even their want of children drew them 
closer to each other. There can be but one such marriage, 
as there can be but one youth ; and, though Niebuhr was 
fortunate in his second marriage, he felt that the flowers 
which faded with life's spring could never bloom again. 
His letters to Madame Hensler, his life-long, faithful friend, 
are full of his anguish. " I have," he wrote, " a twofold loss 
in Amelia, — the life with her, and her love ; and yet not 
merely that, but also an indescribable inspiration which she 
gave me, but of which I was not conscious. Her grave is 
now made : would to God that it might receive me, sweetly 
sleeping in the consciousness of having fulfilled my true call- 
ing ! " A short time before Amelia's death, her husband 
asked her if he could do any thing for her. " Yes," she 
answered : " you shall finish your history, if I live ; " and 
added, after a pause, " and if I do not live : " for the physi- 
cian would not allow any one to speak to her of death, lest it 



64 LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 

might excite her ; and this was her only allusion to death. 
Niebiihr ever afterwards looked upon the completion of his 
history as a solemn duty he owed to her. He wrote repeat- 
edly of the work, " I wish to begin it, even out of my duty to 
Amelia, although I should be convinced it would never be 
published." And again : " Her living participation inspired 
me in every thing, and always refreshed me." This sad 
year was crowded with labor. He devoted several hours 
a week to the education of the crown-prince of Prussia ; 
wrote some political essays ; corrected the geography of 
Herodotus ; prepared an edition of the fragments of Fronto, 
with Buttmann and Heindorff, and a Life of his father. 

The Prussian government appointed him ambassador to 
the court of Rome ; and, while waiting for his papers, he 
studied the canon law, and the history of the church. 
This journey, to which he had looked forward all his life as 
its most desirable event, had, alas ! lost its charm ; for an 
eternal city beyond the grave held his heart and hopes. 
Before his departure for Rome, he married a niece of Madame 
Hensler ; for he felt that existence was not endurable with- 
out a home. Yet his wife knew that Amelia's memory was 
sacred ; and there is something extremely beautiful in the self- 
sacrifice which was willing to hold a second place in a heart 
which was dearer to her than her own life. " Often," says 
Lieber, " have I seen Niebuhr and his wife standing l)cfore 
Amelia's picture in silent contemplation ; and Grctchen 
seems to have looked upon her as a protecting angel." Nie- 
buhr had many plans for usefulness in Rome. He wrote, 
" I will search the Vatican through, and I cannot fail to 
make discoveries. I will seek for manuscripts, not merely 
in the library, but in the archives." He was disappointed. 
The Vatican was guarded with the utmost jealousy, and 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 65 

scholars were allowed to study in it only at certain 
hours ; nor did he find any treasures there. Most of the 
libraries of Italy had, indeed, been plundered by the French. 
He found, however, in Verona, the manuscript of the " Li- 
stitutes" of Gains, and fragments of the work of Cicero 
"De Republica" at Rome. His instructions did not arrive 
until 1821, four years after his arrival in Rome ; and he was, 
of course, constantly annoyed by the delay. He was dis- 
gusted with the Italian people ; the more so, as he constantly 
compared them with their nobler ancestors, and despised 
the shallowness and pedantry of Italian learning. At 
Rome, he lived in the Palazzo Orsini, or, as it is often called, 
Teatro di Marcello ; for the palace is within the remains of 
the theatre built by Augustus in honor of his nephew Mar- 
cellus. Niebuhr gives a fine description of it in his letters 
to Madame Hensler : " The garden surrounds the house on 
three sides, and many windows open into it from all sides. 
In a basin in the garden, a stream of water from the Acqua 
Pola tumbles and rushes; and the wall of the garden is 
hidden by pomegranates, citrons, and jasmines. The cham- 
bers all He upon a line; and when the folding-doors are 
open, after the Italian fashion, they appear to form a gallery, 
and make a beautiful perspective with the green jalousies 
which close the farthest chamber. From the windows, one 
can see the Aventine, and the beautiful Priory of Malta." 
A little while after, he wrote, '' Yesterday and last night I 
passed thinking of my Amelia, and to-day (her birthday) is 
consecrated to the same recollections. A little while ago, I 
saw her in my dreams, as if she came to me after a long 
separation ; but, as it happens in dreams, I could not tell 
if she again lived on the earth, or only visited it a while. 
She received me as if after a long absence ; and asked 

9 



66 LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 

eagerly after the child, which she made them bring to her." 
The child was his son Marcus, who was born after his ar- 
rival in Rome. Five children were there born to him, and 
he was extremely attached to them. " One could have 
nothing to regret with them," he wrote, " unless a greater 
good has been lost." Here, on the tombs of the Caesars, he 
constantly toiled to obtain a clearer idea of the institutions 
of old Rome ; not a mere aesthetic knowledge, but such a 
personal, intimate knowledge as we have of the country of 
our birth and our education : and he constantly made dis- 
coveries in the old buildings, in fragments of lost works, 
in the tenure by which the Italians held their lands, and 
even in the language itself. He lived in the most friendly 
union with the poor artists of Rome, and readily assisted 
them with his purse and his pen ; and his interest in the 
wants of suffering humanity constantly increased. Indeed, 
what was egotistical in his character gradually disappeared, 
and a beautiful warm benevolence took its place. He was 
especially favored in his near connections ; for his secre- 
tary was the noble, good Bunsen, afterwards ambassador, 
whom Dr. Arnold mentions as a man in whom there was 
no guile : and he seemed to have an affectionate regard 
for the Pope, and his minister of state. Cardinal Consalvi. 
Yet a sadness runs through all his letters, even in his 
gratitude for his many blessings, — the sadness of past joys 
and of disappointed hopes. 

It is idle to say that the constant, overstrained exertions 
of the man of genius can make him equally happy with 
the peaceful, patient labors of the men of common mind, 
who look forward to their harvest with the sober certainty of 
success. Genius is almost always but another name for the 
excess of some one power ; and to this peculiarity of Intel- 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 67 

lect is generally united a peculiar physical development. 
Besides all this, society, by praise or neglect, eagerly fa- 
vors an education which increases the evil, and makes the 
lives of most men of genius a true sacrifice for humanity. 
Not but that there may be greatness as a whole, such as 
Shakspeare had in mind, or Washington in character ; but 
these instances are infrequent, and the humble may look 
with indifference on the crowns such martyrs wear. 

Niebuhr was one of these children of sorrow ; for he had a 
peculiarly sensitive physical organization, as well as marked 
characteristics of mind ; and his education had increased a 
natural tendency to criticism, and prevented him from 
having that trusting religious faith for which he longed, 
and which would have enabled him to labor peacefully and 
happily, satisfied with the future reward promised to all 
who faithfully use their talents. There are many such 
disciples as Thomas, to whom the living presence is not 
vouchsafed, but who will find, in a blessed hereafter, all 
their longing fears and doubts satisfied. 

Gradually Niebuhr became resigned to the loss of Ame- 
lia. After six years' absence from Germany, he determined 
to return ; for his wife was constantly ill, and her last hope 
of restoration to health was in her native air. But he had 
lived so long in Italy, it had been for so many years the 
theme of his thoughts, and was itself not only so richly 
endowed with recollections, but so greatly blessed by nature, 
that he left it with something of the tender regret with 
which one leaves a fatherland. His connection with the 
Papal court had been agreeable and successful. He may 
have erred sometimes in imagining that there could be a 
sincere union between Catholics and Protestants ; but it 
was the error of too kind a heart, and is easily pardoned. 



68 LIVE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 

Lieber's reminiscences refer only to the time of his sojourn 
in Italy, and they add a few touches to the picture already 
painted in his letters. We only wish we had room to give 
some of those charming domestic scenes, in which the man 
and father is best seen in his affectionate anxiety for the 
happiness of every one around him, his unceasing labors 
for their improvement, and his sensitiveness to his own 
faults ; even asking pardon of his children when he had 
punished them unjustly or unkindly. 

In 1823, he returned to Germany, and finally settled in 
Bonn, where he again lectured on Roman history, and con- 
tinued preparing his work for the press, correcting the 
volumes previously published, as he saw his way more 
clearly. His reputation had already spread over Europe. 
In France, the first editions had been rapidly sold ; and, in 
England, Cambridge took the translation by " Hare and 
Thirlwall " under its especial care. But Niebuhr not only 
labored on Roman history: he constantly obtained light 
from the kindred history of Greece, and at one time had an 
idea of preparing a complete edition of the Byzantine 
writers, beginning with the works of Agathias. He was also 
connected with a newspaper, the " Rhenish Museum," and 
watched with the closest attention the progress of events in 
Europe ; lecturing one winter in Bonn on modern history. 
He had an extensive correspondence, a large acquaintance ; 
and was visited by so many curious travellers, that he en- 
treated Lieber not to give introductions easily. Yet, amid 
this multiplicity of affairs, he never neglected his family ; 
and so attentive was he to his children, that he sometimes 
said, repeating the remark of Lord Bacon, " that no man 
could hope to do any great work, with a family of children." 
His mind had lost its fulness of youthful energy and 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 69 

originality, but had gained in steadiness of purpose ; and, 
with his increasing years, his heart was more and more at 
peace, and the clouds which had so long obscured life's 
heaven reflected and enhanced the glory of the evening. 
" I have gained the power," he wrote from Bonn, " in spite 
of my age, of looking forward with courage ; and in that I 
feel myself still young. That which I have lost, never to 
return again, makes my heart beat, and brings tears to my 
eyes ; but I press them back. The labor of my life, so far 
as it is completed, gives me courage and consolation ; for I 
know that my years have not been spent in vain." It is 
almost a prophetic confidence with which he always speaks 
of his history, never doubting for a moment of its truth. 
" You say," lie writes to Madame Hensler, " that you have 
no judgment in these matters. But I dare say to you, 
with the greatest confidence, that he who is unjust to me in 
my history has no judgment in the matter ; for it is very 
plain that any one who has examined and contemplated an 
object, both as a whole and in all its parts, as often as I 
have this, has the same advantages in it which one has in 
his own home against strangers." But his long, laborious 
life was drawing to a close. He seems to have had a fore- 
boding of this. In the preceding winter of 1829, his house 
was burned down ; but he was happily established in a new 
home, even more to his taste than the old. Yet he wrote 
repeatedly that he had never lived more than seven years in 
any one place since his childhood, and the seven years 
were accomplished in Bonn. A change came soon, and it 
was the great and final change. 

On the Christmas Eve of 1830, he took a violent cold, 
which increased to a fever, and, from the beginning, baffled 
the skill of his physicians. He was composed, talking of 



70 LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 

his history and other literary affairs, and did not seem con- 
scious of his situation. Once only, when his wife rose from 
her sick-bed to see him, he said in a tone of anguish to his 
children, " My children, pray to God ; for he alone can help 
you." On the night of the 2d of February, his pure and 
great soul, without a struggle, left its earthly tenement. 
Nine days after, his wife followed him. She had always 
been in delicate health, and grief struck the last blow. 

Niebuhr's writings were original in design. Previously, 
Roman history had been written as if it were literally the 
history of a dead people ; and no one had imagined that 
the study of the other States of antiquity or of modern times 
could throw any light upon the subject. Beaufort and Vico 
seem to have comprehended its difficulties, and the way 
in which they should be conquered ; yet their labors rather 
betrayed the darkness than illuminated it. 

As Niebuhr said, a statesman only could write the history 
of Rome ; and as a statesman he wrote it. He was, besides, 
peculiarly gifted by nature, and had received the best edu- 
cation, for the task. His memory was most remarkable. 
He said he never forgot any thing he read. Once his wife 
and Madame Hensler questioned him until they were tired, 
by the index of Gibbon's History, in hope of some mistake 
or forge tfulness, but in vain. He rarely took notes from 
the books he read, and used none in his lectures ; and it 
was sufficient, to fix any remark in his mind, to talk it over 
with Amelia. To this memory he united a wonderful power 
in the combination and arrangement of materials, and 
habits of unwearied industry. He had learned geography, 
literally by heart, from his father ; and had great facility in 
acquiring languages, so that he was master of twenty. His 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 71 

various connections as financier and ambassador had made 
him acquainted with all the public and private relations of 
life and business ; and, as he lived at a time when all Eu- 
rope was distracted by revolution, his attention was natu- 
rally turned to the traditional and written law of nations. 
He saw the feudal aristocracy crumbling before the awa- 
kened power of the people, and was thus better capable of 
understanding the contests between the patricians and ple- 
beians of old Rome. He was himself an aristocrat ; nor 
could he fail to be so, with the horrors of the French 
revolution before him, and the apparent hopelessness of the 
contest for freedom. Thus his knowledge of nations and 
governments was not obtained in the closet alone ; but, 
while he studied, he lived with the Roman people. 

None have yet ventured to criticize his History. It 
received the approbation of such men as Spalding and 
Savigny ; and Dr. Arnold, the best English historian of 
Rome, expressed unqualified admiration of his work. It 
had errors of style ; but there could, of course, be little 
elegance in a purely critical work. Yet even through the 
criticism the man appears. Numerous passages betray the 
strivings of the soul for an ideal excellence ; and he some- 
times speaks of the youthful life of the soul which labors 
in love and hope, and complains of the deadening influence 
of a modern scholar's life. There is nothing finer than his 
delicate perception of Manlius's character. 

In person, Niebuhr was short, — not above five feet six 
inches. His features were thin and sharp ; but his eyes had 
an expression of gayety, good-humor, and benevolence. His 
voice was shrill, and his manner was not agreeable in speak- 
ing. In public, and among strangers, he had the reputation 



72 



LIFE AND CHARACTER OF NIEBUHR. 



of being reserved ; but, with those he loved and esteemed, he 
was frank and cordial, showing an affectionate interest in 
the labors of young students, and no jealousy of the 
success of his equals. He was naturally of an irritable 
temperament ; but, at any ebullition of temper, his ready 
apology more than pardoned the offence. 

But we should in vain attempt to show the purity, sim- 
plicity, and greatness of his mind and heart as revealed in 
his works and letters. Most cordially we thank his biogra- 
pher for his faithful labors ; and we only regret that he has 
so modestly narrowed his own remarks. As it is, his biogra- 
phy adds another to our examples of a noble, good, and 
useful life ; an example which teaches not merely by the 
great works, but by the little acts of every day, and even 
more by the life itself. 



73 



SKETCH OF THE HISTORY OP FLOEENCE. 



The government of Rome was established when Rome 
ceased to be a garrison altogether municipal. This was 
very natural : for after the territory of Rome had enlarged, 
and it was no longer limited to the possession of a few 
uncultivated piles ; when she felt to some degree safe in 
her strength, and her numbers had so much increased 
that all were not required to guard the fortress, — then 
she turned her attention to the arts of peace, and conse- 
quently to the study of government. But, as her exist- 
ence was for a long time precarious, this government slowly 
changed from the strict law of a garrison to the more 
lenient rule of a city. As she conquered other cities, from 
want of power to reduce them entirely, and from policy, 
she left to them most of their rights as independent cities, 
and bound them to herself by slight municipal ties, until, 
at length, the whole Roman territory was covered with cities 
nearly independent, which it was found necessary to unite 
by a more effective monarchical government. But, even 
under the monarchy, the municipal government was never 
entirely disused ; and it laid the foundation for the free 
cities which were the links between ancient and modern 
freedom. During the decline and fall of the Roman em- 
pire, the cities, particularly in Italy, were called upon to 

10 



74 SKETCH OF THE 

exert themselves against the barbarians. They felt their 
strength again, and recovered many of the rights which 
they had lost under the tyranny of the emperors. Italy was 
very favorable to the growth of the free cities. Ancient 
civilization had there reached its acme, and its institutions 
were effete when the barbarians overwhelmed it. " In the 
word Roman," says Luitprand, Bishop of Cremona, " is in- 
cluded all that is ignoble, timid, avaricio.us, lascivious, and 
false, and every vice that can debase the dignity of man." 
But the barbarians infused a new energy into the dormant 
mass, and, at the same time, never wholly subdued Italy. 
They came to Italy with barbarian tastes ; and, as they found 
no forests and no game to gratify their savage predilections, 
the tide of invasion gradually rolled back. But, like the 
Nile, which overflows, and leaves a fertilizing sediment on 
its banks, they left behind them a new people to keep alive 
the energy which they had awakened. 

In the southern part of Italy, there were many Grecian 
cities, which were never destroyed, and in which a popula- 
tion highly civilized gradually mingled with the barbarian 
settlers ; and, in the north, the Lombard will, though in- 
tolerably fierce, was modified by time and intercourse. 
The records of their unhappy government are wanting, and 
it was an age in which all Italy was ravaged by war. Yet, 
in this darkness, the embryo republics were gradually form- 
ing themselves, which shone with so much lustre, especially 
in the northern part of Italy. The barbarians gave the 
Italians their strength, and the Italians taught them their 
institutions. 

There was a long and violent struggle between long- 
cherished ophiions and barbarian authority ; l)ut, when the 
emperors endeavored to ini})0se their will upon the Italians, 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 75 

they found the whole body of the people endowed with a 
new strength, and ready to contend with them. Men once 
accustomed to self-government and the use of arms are not 
easily subdued ; and in that situation were the Italians, 
when the emperors sought to tyrannize over them. 

The Church also was republican ; for, as she was obliged 
to resort to the people to fill her ranks, of course her heart 
was with them. Then the contest of the Church with the 
emperors of the West was not for authority, but for life. She 
asked at first only for the separation of the temporal and 
spiritual power ; and, by her position opposed to the imperial 
prerogative, she was ready to ally herself with the people, 
its natural adversaries. Superstition never had that influ- 
ence in Italy which it had in the other countries of Europe. 
Perhaps this arose from the old leaven of Roman infidelity, 
but more from the fact that the Italians were near the 
leaders in the church, and could see more clearly into their 
tricks. They remembered more vividly the Church in her 
days of weakness, and could see that her strength rested 
entirely on opinion. The Church was then the friend of 
freedom and of the free cities, during their weakness and 
her own. When she would have encroached upon them in 
their strength, she felt herself still too feeble ; and we find 
the free cities in the twelfth century exhibiting a courage 
in opposing her pretensions and encroachments, for which 
Germany has been lauded in the sixteenth. 

Thus the cities of Italy were aided by the influence of the 
clergy, which was, in most instances, highly beneficial to 
civilization ; for in all those countries where the clergy uni- 
ted with the barbarians, and participated in the government, 
— as, for instance, with the Visigoths in Spain, — the laws of 
the barbarians were more liberal and humane. Then the 



76 SKETCH OF THE 

free cities were also aided in their growth by their position. 
The southern part of France was as highly cultivated as 
Italy ; the south of Germany also was inhabited by a 
powerful, if not a thoroughly civilized, people ; and Italy 
was thus protected from those frequent devastations of the 
barbarians to which -the north of Prance and Germany 
were subject. When the rest of Europe had settled into 
peace, the trade of the Levant naturally sought the Italian 
ports. This trade was very lucrative. The abundance of 
raw material demanded and obtained artisans ; and with 
the increase of riches came civilization and luxury. As 
the Italian free cities had the start of the Germans in point 
of refinement as well as position, they monopolized manu- 
factures ; and, with every step, they advanced in a geo- 
metrical ratio. "With their riches, they also obtained an 
influence in other countries. Their merchants were in 
every commercial city : they were honored in courts, and 
employed in embassies ; so that Boniface A^III. said that 
the Florentines were the fifth element, as they were to be 
met with in all parts of the world. 

They owed also a great portion of their influence to their 
banking establishments. Tlie Italians were, in fact, the 
bankers of Europe. The extent and ramifications of their 
l)usiness were sometimes enormous. The house of Carroc- 
cio degli Albert! alone, in the tenth century, had regular 
banking establishments at Avignon, Bruges, Brussels, Pa- 
ris, Rome, Naples, Venice, Perugia, Sienna, and Barletta. 
Money was worth, and obtained, an immeiise interest. As 
proof of this, there was, about 1430, an attempt made to 
introduce Jews into Florence, on condition that they would 
not demand more than twenty per cent for their money ; 
and the bankers, although universally hated and insulted 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 77 

as Lombard dogs in foreign countries, were still courted, as 
money, the all-powerful engine in modern governments, 
obtained an increasing influence. The Crusades had an 
important effect in enriching the free cities of Italy. They 
were the struggles of Europe for freedom ; and, by them, 
some of the fetters of individual slavery were broken. In 
Italy, to be sure, feudalism had never obtained such hold 
as in the rest of Europe ; but, even there, the Crusades 
found many vestiges of slavery, which they removed. The 
condition of the slaves was improved, and a general impulse 
was given to the cause of freedom. As the Italians were 
bankers, their aid was particularly needed ; and we know 
at what price it was bought. For instance, the Crusaders 
were willing to attack Zara, a city belonging to a most 
Christian ally, in order to obtain the assistance of the 
Venetians. 

The Italians, as expert merchants, made, in almost every 
instance, the best bargains ; nor did the influence of the 
Crusades cease when Europe no longer sent forth swarms 
to Asia. Connections by business and relationship, which 
still continued, were formed with the Italian cities. Trade 
wonderfully increased, and many new avenues were opened. 
The government of most of the cities was particularly 
favorable to taking advantage of this trade. It had, in 
Florence, assumed a strictly mercantile form. Her .rival, 
Venice, if not free, was still, by her stability, sure to attract 
and retain business ; and Venice's greater rival, Genoa, 
although disturbed by faction, possessed some degree of 
the energy particularly favorable to mercantile success. 
Perhaps this improvement was only momentary. It is 
but too true that Italy has sunk to its present degradation 
by the interference of foreigners in its politics, as well as by 



78 SKETCH OF THE 

its own factions. Of this the Italians were sensible, and, in 
their early history, seem to have jealously excluded foreign- 
ers from any part in the government. They felt that such 
interference was particularly dangerons in cities convulsed 
by faction. In Florence, foreign ministers were not re- 
ceived, and in Venice they were watched with lynx-eyed 
suspicion. In this the Italians were in advance of the 
rest of Europe. The people — in some countries at least; 
as in France, for instance — in the fourteenth century, 
while insisting upon their right alone to grant money, left 
in the hands of the king all the diplomatic relations, which 
he well knew how to turn to the advancement of his power. 
Now the Crusades had the effect of increasing the numbers, 
and of course the influence, of foreigners in Italy ; and 
they at length, uniting with the dominant faction, as with 
the Medici in Florence, were able to overturn any govern- 
ment. The Crusades gave an impulse to individual enter- 
prise, and all Europe was awakened to a sense of the advan- 
tages of wealth, and the means of obtaining it. In the arts 
of manufacture, learned from the Italians themselves and 
the cities of Italy, there sprang up rivals who could com- 
pete with their teachers, having superior advantages of situa- 
tion for trade, besides that of growing their own materials. 
This finally took away the trade which had been the 
strength and riches of the Italian cities, — a result still 
further hastened by the discovery of a new passage to the 
Indies, round the Cape of Good Hope. 

But we wish to speak particularly of Florence, as the 
history of that city is more brilliant and eventful than 
that of the other cities. Florence shone in arts and arms, 
in literature and science ; had an important influence in 
the politics of the rest of Italy and Europe, and showed 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 79 

to what an extent of power even a petty state may attain 
by the innate force of free institutions acting upon a manly 
energy of character. 

We have, in Florence, an example also of a victorious 
people enlarging their territory by war, without any real 
augmentation of national force. The history of Florence is 
like that of every republic where the government is vigorous 
and energetic, but where the institutions have no principle 
of progress ; where there is liberty without personal safety, 
which finally becomes the prey of changing tyrants, and 
at last of some fortunate despot, who transmits to his family 
the power he has seized. 

The history of Florence was particularly that of a city : 
there was no republic without the walls. She had no 
colonies in whom she could trust ; but her strength arose 
from her union as a corporate body. It was the corporate 
power of her trades that brought her safely through those 
tempests which seemed to threaten the very existence of so- 
ciety. Yet that her territory was little extended beyond 
her walls (and, in the palmy days of the republic, it did 
not exceed one-third of the present dukedom) was one 
chief cause of her troubles, and of her decline and fall ; 
for faction could act immediately upon the government. 
The temptation to revolutionize was too great, where there 
were no counteracting influences in a rural population at- 
tached to the government, but having interests different 
from those of the suburban population, and where a revo- 
lution was so easy, if not effective. 

Florence is of very early date ; so early, that it is lost in 
fable. Tacitus speaks of it as having municipal rights. 
Another writer, Lucius Florus, reckons it among the mw- 
nicipia sold by Sylla at public auction. It suffered with 



80 SKETCH OF THE 

the rest of Italy in the barbarian irruptions, and from the 
Lombards, who, as was their custom, probably levelled its 
walls. Its history during this period is uncertain ; but, 
under Charlemagne, it again revived, and the walls were 
rebuilt. 

There is little reason to doubt the internal freedom of 
most of the Tuscan cities in the eleventh century, when 
no efficient government existed ; when the country was torn 
by civil war, and each town, consulting its own interests, 
sided either with their immediate princes the counts of Tus- 
cany, or with the more distant emperor. We read of 
Lucca and Pisa carrying on a war against each other at 
their own will and expense ; and 6f a Pisan expedition 
against the Saracens of Calabria, in the eleventh century. 
Much of this freedom was owing to the rulers of the house 
of Saxony, who endeavored to elevate the burgher-spirit, as 
a counterpoise to the aristocratic ; and their ally, Matilda, 
Marchioness of Tuscany, closely united herself to the popes, 
in opposition to the emperors, and, by her wise and vigor- 
ous administration, established, to a certain extent, the 
freedom of Tuscany. The life of this woman is an epoch 
in Tuscan history ; and, from its varied and brilliant 
character, is well worthy the pen of the historian and the 
novelist. The general form of government in the Tuscan 
cities was that of a certain number of consuls, at first 
subordinate to the counts of Tuscany, but gradually ac- 
quiring more and more power until they became independ- 
ent ; then the Privy Council, chosen from the Great Coun- 
cil, which managed the finances and foreign afiairs ; then 
the Senate, or Secret Council, usually composed of a hun- 
dred members, which prepared all public acts previous to 
their being offered for confirmation to the Parliament, which, 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 81 

however, commonly required the confirmation of the Cre- 
densa; and, finally, the Parliament, which was the sove- 
reign power of the nation, in which all the people assembled 
at the sound of the " Campana," or public bell, and discussed 
all national questions in the great square of the palace. 
Some communities, in addition to their consuls, elected 
ministers of war, justice, and public economy ; and had no 
Senate, but only the Great Council composed of heads of 
families, and the Credensa chosen from it. 

In the thirteenth century, we find, in the office of the po- 
desta, a new feature in these governments. Frederic I. had 
appointed certain officers called Podestas, instead of the 
elective councils, as minions of his tyranny in the Tuscan 
cities and republics. After the peace of Constance, the 
cities were so unwise that they revived the office, although 
one cause of their rebellion arose from the oppression of 
these officers. The podesta was chosen from a foreign city ; 
was always of noble family ; received a fixed salary ; and was 
obliged to remain in the city a year after his term of office 
expired, in order to answer all charges brought against him. 
He could neither marry a native, nor have any relatives in 
the city that chose him ; nor could he eat in the houses 
of the citizens. These very restrictions prove the dangerous 
extent of his power. He was, in fact, a dictator ; and we 
have but little confidence in the liberty of a people who 
argued, in defence of this officer, that he was necessarily 
chosen, as no citizen would dare to execute justice. They 
endeavored to defend themselves from his despotism by 
also establishing a captain of the people, who possessed 
some of the powers of the tribunes. 

The first podestas were, indeed, wise and prudent men ; 
but they were the precedent for such successors as Charles 

11 



82 



SKETCH OF THE 



Valois ; and we cannot help being surprised that the re- 
public was so long blind to the danger of intrnsthig one man 
with such authority. Yet, under this ill-adjusted govern- 
ment, Florence grew in riches and in power. Frugal and 
industrious, she was, like all republics, warlike ; and her 
nobles were able and willing leaders, in foreign conquest 
or domestic strife. War was, indeed, the policy of the 
government ; for the turbulent spirits not employed abroad 
were always active in mischief at home : so that Florence, 
even in the thirteenth century, might well have received 
the appellation of Pistoja, which was termed the " city of 
factions." 

These factions sometimes arose from contentions between 
the nobles and middle classes ; again, from those of the 
middle classes and tlie lower ; and sometimes from foreign 
influence. There were always causes enough to create 
divisions, materials enough to feed them ; but, in the 
thirteenth century, the great division of Guelph and 
Ghibelline overshadowed the rest. Every one knows the 
meaning of these names, and the cause of their rise. In 
Italy they took a peculiar meaning : and, after the original 
causes of dissension had ceased to exert an influence, the 
word " Guelph " was still used to express the party of popu- 
lar government ; and " Ghibelline," that of the aristocracy : 
and as the latter, by adhering to the empire, strove for 
an oligarchy ; so the former, being attached to the church, 
labored for a democracy. These parties were all-powerful 
in Florence. This led to the most pernicious consequences: 
for the city was so small, that the conquerors dared not 
to permit the vanquished to live side by side with them ; 
and accordingly all Italy swarmed with exiles, who were 
willing to purchase a return to their country at any 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 83 

price, and readily leagued with Transalpine adventurers. 
These projects the popes always favored : for they seemed 
to think that their own power depended entirely on the 
weakness of the rest of Italy, and eagerly fomented foreign 
wars as the means of this weakness ; forgetting that they 
thereby increased the strength of foreigners, and not theirs, 
which depended upon that of their own people ; and 
that, when the outposts were driven in, there was more 
certain danger for the citadel. 

In the thirteenth century, we first find the distinct recog- 
nition of the trades as a part of the government of Florence. 
There were seven Arti Maggiori^ or superior trades, so 
called to distinguish them from the Arti Menori, or infe- 
rior trades, afterwards established. The Arti Maggiori 
consisted of the lawyers, the foreign-cloth merchants, the 
bankers, the wool-dealers, the physicians, the silk-dpalers, 
and the furriers ; the Arti Menori, constituted in 1292, 
consisted of the retailers of cloth, the butchers, the shoe- 
makers, the masons, the carpenters, the farriers, and the 
locksmiths ; and these twelve trades formed a united 
body, armed and equipped for mutual support and pro- 
tection. We cannot help comparing the ancient guilds of 
Rome, and perhaps those of old Florence, with the great 
guilds of modern Florence. In Rome there were nine of 
them, — pipe-layers, goldsmiths, carpenters, dyers, carriers, 
tanners, coppersmiths, potters ; and a ninth guild, common 
to other trades. A comparison of these guilds offers a fair 
commentary on the difference between ancient and modern 
trade. 

These trades were an armed as well as a civic band. They 
had magistrates of their own choice, who directed all their 
internal business, and afterwards, under the name of the 



84 SKETCH OF THE 

Priors of the Arts, obtained an important influence in 
the government. It would be impossible to give any 
precise account of the Florentine form of government. 
Its name was 7nutabilitij. Scarcely two years, sometimes 
scarcely two successive months, saw the same form. Their 
general constitution was, however, much like that we have 
already described as common to the Italian cities of the 
twelfth century, — first the Parliament, then the Credensa, 
then the Privy Council. In its early history we find two 
classes of people in Florence, — the nobles and the people. 
The nobles then willingly sided with the people, in order 
to protect themselves against the oppression of their masters, 
the counts or the emperors ; but, when they had nothing 
more to fear from them, they very naturally began to op- 
press the people. Thus began the contest between a privi- 
leged aristocracy and a vigorous democracy. It ended, as 
all such contests must end, where the people are young 
and growing, and possessed of the effective wealth of the 
kingdom, in the ruin of the nobles. But, as it happens in 
most republics, reform was carried too far. While the 
nobles existed as a clan, they were a check upon the vio- 
lence of the untrained democracy ; their feelings, if not 
their interests, led them to respect their country and its 
laws, far more than the upstart merchants, who were eager 
to signalize their short day of power by some wonderful 
act, it mattered little whether for their country's good or 
not, provided they were only distinguished by it. 

The bitterness between the nobles and the people con- 
stantly increased ; and, in the thirteenth century, Florence 
was divided into two great classes, — the Grandi and the 
people ; while the latter was divided into two classes, — 
people and plebeians ; the last sul)division having no rights, 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 85 

and having, virtually, every access to public distinction 
closed against them. When we add to these factions 
those of the Guelphs and Ghibellines, and all the private 
quarrels of a people fierce and warlike in their habits, 
sudden and quick with the weapon, and careless of blood, 
we shall have some idea of the disturbed state of society in 
this city. 

Florence was nominally a republic ; but there is a great 
difference between the power of making good laws, and 
that of executing them. She had the first, but not the 
last. Her rulers, who were the favorites of a faction, were 
consequently directed by a faction ; and society was in such 
a state, that she was compelled to be unjust to secure justice, 
and to be cruel to insure humanity. Yet amid this strife, 
and constantly embroiled in the wars of the emperors and 
the French with the popes, as also in the petty contests between 
city and city, she steadily increased in riches. Her organi- 
zation in the thirteenth century, as a military city, was 
complete. The city was divided into six wards, or sesti^ 
from which certain civil officers were chosen ; and all the 
population capable of bearing arms were divided into 
twenty companies, distributed according to the size and 
population of each sesto, or ward ; that of San Piero, for 
instance, having four, others having three. The Contado 
also was divided into ninety-six unions ; each union being- 
connected with several others, and forming what was deno- 
minated a League. Every civic company served under its 
own Gonfalone, or standard-bearer, round whom it rallied 
at the sound of the great bell " Campana," or at the com- 
mand of tlie captain of the people. 

Their arms were as various as their standards, but all were 
distinctly organized, and suited to one another, — cavalry. 



86 SKETCH OF THE 

heavy-armed infantry, archers, crossbow-men, baggage-train, 
and some bands of irregulars denominated ribaldi. By this 
arrangement, every sesto of the city was a military as well 
as a civil division ; each with separate powers, interests, and 
resources, yet each in close union with the neighboring 
departments. There was, therefore, in cases of great emer- 
gency, wonderful union and celerity. When we also recol- 
lect the division of the people into trades, and that these 
with the standard-bearers of the companies always obtained 
a part in the government, we must perceive how strong 
and grasping was the power of the people. It is curious, 
indeed, to watch their gradual assumption of liberty ; 
now hanging on the path of reform, now retracing their 
steps, winding and doubling ; but always returning to the 
same path again, until the nobles were ruined. We are 
constantly reminded of the parent city Rome, and of the 
advancement of the tribunitian power until it grew into 
a monstrous tyranny. 

We shall perhaps be more fully aware of the strength of 
Florence, when we remember that in the thirteenth century 
she could bring into the field, at a moment's warning, thirty 
thousand of the urban, and seventy thousand of the rural, 
population. Thus when, in 1384, Florence made a sudden 
demonstration against Arezzo, twenty thousand cavalry and 
sixty thousand infantry were almost instantaneously collected 
at one point. The military resources of the republics in the 
north of Italy were, at this period, truly astonishing. Milan 
offered Frederick II. ten thousand men to accompany him 
into Palestine ; Bologna armed forty thousand against Venice ; 
and the tyrant Eccelius maintained, among his other troops, 
a legion of twelve thousand Paduans. In the thirteenth 
century, the foreign trade of Florence was very flourishing. 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 87 

The city had increased in size and beauty. She had pro- 
duced some great men ; and, among them, Dante shone like 
a sun : yet she was frugal and industrious, and, like the 
Dutch of modern times, more careful for the luxuries of 
others than for her own. But, with the fourteenth century, 
we mark a change. Transalpine influence had silently 
worked an alteration, and French customs had taken the 
place of the simple fashions of the fathers of the city. The 
old aristocracy had given place to the new aristocracy of 
purse-proud wealth. There was more extravagance in 
dress, entertainments, and public spectacles, and a marked 
increase in luxury. Yet she was as much divided as ever. 
Nay, by the admission of the partisans of the Bianchi and 
Neri factions within her walls, she added new fuel to the 
flames. She was still eager in foreign wars ; so that 
Giovanni Morelli, a contemporary historian, justly ex- 
claimed, " Make war ; promote war ; nourish those who 
foment war. Florence has never been free from war, and 
never will be until the heads of four leading citizens are 
annually chopped off" on the scaffold." Private gain and 
the spirit of faction were the great promoters of war in 
Florence. The warlike spirit is perhaps incidental to all 
republics ; but it was particularly dangerous to Florence. 
The great sources of her wealth were in commerce ; but, 
during her wars, that was in a great measure suspended or 
disturbed; and she was often saved only by her position, 
the state of Europe, and the strength of a long-established 
mercantile government. The truth is, that, after she sought 
to extend her territories like Venice, she grew weaker every 
day. But, in the fourteenth century, she was reaching the 
height of her prosperity. Her aristocracy was not so op- 
pressive as that of Venice, nor so powerful individually as 



88 SKETCH OF THE 

the magnates of Genoa. The people had the prestige of 
victory, but had not obtained it in reality. 

The removal of the popes to Avignon had a powerful 
effect upon Italian liberty. The popes, immersed in plea- 
sure, ceased to care so much for their own aggrandizement, 
and embroiled themselves less in Italian politics. Taxes 
were at this period, however, very heavy in Florence. 
" All the evils of the republic," said one of her public men, 
" come from past and present taxes." They were not only 
heavy, but unequally distributed, and fell most oppressively 
on the poor. But, as even these did not suffice to pay the 
expenses of constant war, all the ordinary sources of 
revenue were mortgaged ; and, in 1336, a funded debt was 
created, the first in Europe. This produced poverty among 
the people. The amount of mendicity, in strong contrast 
with immense riches, in the city, was at this period truly 
astonishing ; and great disorders arose, especially among the 
lowest classes. As is usual with governments in debt, 
Florence always made bad bargains, and had to pay enor- 
mous interest on the loans she obtained. Add to these evils, 
that all Italy, and of course Florence, was ravaged by con- 
dottieri, or free bands of soldiers, who, when not admitted 
into the city, devastated the country. These ruffians 
were a class of reduced gentlemen, who lived in dilapi- 
dated country-houses, and had no scruples about admini- 
stering to their necessities by plunder. Add to all these 
evils the horrors of civil dissension, and we have but a 
sorry picture of Florentine happiness in the fourteenth 
century, in spite of growing wealth. We cannot dismiss 
the subject of the condottieri without more particular 
notice. Duke Werner is considered as the first leader of 
the band of soldiers that was ready to fight under that 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 89 

banner which would best reward bis services. War was to 
him a trade. 

But perhaps this business may be referred to the Cru- 
sades for its origin. After the expeditions to the Holy 
Land ceased, there were large bodies of men, well trained 
in arms, who had lost all the habits and tastes of citizens, 
and who knew not how to obtain a livelihood by any other 
means than by arms. In the contests of Italy, these men 
found a field for their talents, and gladly offered them- 
selves to the highest bidder, and were as gladly received, 
as the cities found their very existence threatened by the 
neglect of commerce and agriculture ; while large portions 
of the country were engaged in constant war, and presented 
the appearance of a garrison, where every man serves his 
turn on guard. These soldiers had no regard for the poor 
people ; they burned, ravaged, and destroyed at their 
pleasure, and were the terror of the country in peace as 
well as in war. 

In the fourteenth century, all Italy was divided between 
two rival schools of arms, — the Braccesci, or those who 
had learned war under Braccio da Montoni ; and the Sfo- 
rezci, the pupils of his rival Sforza, now led by Francesco 
Sforza, afterwards Duke of Milan. Braccio at one time 
received four thousand florins from the people of Imola 
as the price of not burning their harvests or besieging their 
walls ; at another time, he exacted eighty thousand from 
Bologna ; and, after fighting for various princes, he at last 
obtained the lordship of Perugia and Rocca Contrada. 

The history of one of these freebooters is like that of 
all the rest. The consequences of this system of warfare 
M^ere most pernicious. The condottieri had, of course, no 
public feeling, no patriotism, in a foreign country ; and, as 

12 



90 SKETCH OF THE 

they fought merely for pay, they were more anxious for 
the continuance of war than for peace. As tliey were con- 
stantly changing sides, it often happened that the comrades 
of one campaign were the enemies of the next. From a 
very natural feeling of brotherhood in the combatants, the 
campaign was finished without the war's being brought 
nearer to a conclusion ; and the poor people suffered the 
more. In one battle, not a single man perished. 

The mercantile spirit in warfare infected all ranks : and 
fathers who were on one side permitted their sons, with 
their retainers, to engage on the other ; as was the case 
with the house of Orsini in the Sicilian wars. But the 
most fatal effect of all is found in the fact, that the martial 
spirit died out amongst the natives ; and they felt that their 
liberties were to be defended by others, not by themselves. 

We have already spoken of the organization of Florence 
as a warlike city ; but, in the fourteenth century, new 
strength was given to this by the formation of a magistracy 
called the Decemvirate of War, when it was placed in the 
power of ten citizens, or rather a majority of seven, to 
make peace or war as they chose, without being called 
to any account. These men could form regulations, raise 
contributions, and even armies, without control. The 
so-called freedom of Florence is truly ridiculous, after the 
formation of such an institution. We are reminded of 
the famous Council of Ten in Venice, — that fearful council, 
which was invested with entire sovereignty over every indi- 
vidual in the State, and with freedom from all responsibility 
and repeal ; whose mysterious proceedings the public eye 
never pierced ; and where the condemnation was as secret 
as the inquiry and the punishment, and undivulged like 
both. We are reminded of this council, from the similarity, 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 91 

ill its enormous abuse of power, to the Florentine Decem- 
virate, rather than from the nature of tliese offices ; for 
the Council of Ten was properly a criminal court. But the 
comparison between Venetian and Florentine history is 
very natural. In both, an iron despotism ruled: in one 
it was the State ; in the other, faction. " We are the law 
and the judge ! " exclaimed one of the priors of the Arti in 
Florence. But in Venice there was no public voice : decrees 
went forth from the Sanctuary of State as from an ideal 
being. Popularity was unknown to her statesmen : no eye 
was on them, no ear heard them ; and the expression of 
public opinion was smothered in the Lag-unes. Everywhere 
was felt the power of a penetrating, unmitigated aristocracy. 
In her foreign policy she was equally subtle and secret. 
" Dead men make no wars " was her practical motto. In 
Florence neither thought nor tongue was shackled, but no 
individual or property was safe. The poor man could not 
call his house his castle, or his possessions his own ; nor 
even his life, although safe. The people seemed to think 
there was enough of freedom in electing their magistrates ; 
and provided for their proper conduct, while in office, by the 
terror alone of another election. Florence, worn out by 
struggles, finally sought repose in the arms of a tyrant ; 
but, when Venice fell, all her institutions had become effete, 
and she died from mere imbecility. After the downfall of 
the nobles in Florence, the principal burgher-families 
stepped into their place, and, under a more popular name, 
pursued a similar course of insolence and oppression. 
Thus, in the fourteenth century, we still find three classes 
of people in Florence, — the rich plebeians ; the people, as 
opposed to the grandees ; and a third class, composed, oddly 
enough, of the ancient nobles popularized. 



92 SKETCH OF THE 

We have given but a slight description of the machinery 
of Florentine government, for it was always changing ; yet 
we may fittingly speak of it as it was in the fourteenth 
century, before it became the ready means of Medicean 
tyranny. This machine of State was composed, in the 
first place, of the Seigniory, — namely, a Gonfalonier of 
Justice, and eight Priors of the Arts ; of two auxiliary 
Colleges, — one of twelve Buonomini, the others of sixteen 
Gonfaloniers of companies ; and altogether named the Col- 
leges and Seigniory. Then came the Senate, which varied 
in number from the year 1343 to 1494. 

Besides these two greater councils, there was that of the 
people, composed exclusively of Popolani ; and that of 
the community, which admitted both people and nobles. 
The nomination of all magistracies, which was at first 
open, afterwards fell into the hands of a more select 
body ; and the act of selection was denominated scru- 
tinizing, because the character, qualities, and pretensions 
of the candidates were then minutely investigated. This 
ceremony took place once in three or five years : a cer- 
tain number were thus selected, and then drawn from 
the Borsa, or purse, by lot, at every election. Such was 
the general form of government. Its character was 
motley ; for sometimes the Seigniory was composed half 
of one faction, and half of another. Then a cunning 
leader could always find means to infl.uence the scrutinizing 
and final lottery. The Medici found it no hinderance to 
their ambitious designs ; nay, it served as a cover for them : 
and the first Cosmo, who was more desirous of real power 
than of its glitter, found the form of liberty a ready hand- 
maid to tyranny. 

We shall not attempt to describe the course of the 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 93 

Medici before they obtained possession of supreme power. 
" Florence," said Nicolo de Uzzano, " was ready to 
sell herself, and fortune had been so kind as to find her 
a purchaser." The Medici were immensely wealthy, and, 
as a family, wonderfully endowed with talents. They knew 
how to use both their riches and their talents for their 
own advancement. The Florentines at the same time 
hugged their gilded chains, and bestowed upon the first 
Cosmo, the founder of the Medicean greatness, the much- 
abused title of Father of his Country. 

One of the most interesting men of the fourteenth cen- 
tury was Girolamo Savonarola, the reformer. His life 
is a history of his times. It must be remembered, when- 
ever we speak of him, that, at this period, politics and 
religion went hand in hand in Italy; the latter, indeed, 
being made subservient to the former. The whole world 
shuddered at beholding murder, lasciviousness, and incest 
revelling in the Papal see ; but, in Italy, the people had 
become habituated to the sight of the prodigy, and had 
no desire to cleanse the edifice, or to purify a system which 
they found so convenient as a shield for their own vices. 
At such a period of spiritual darkness, Savonarola appeared. 
He was born in Ferrara in 1452. He was early distin- 
guished for his love of learning ; but his voice was harsh 
and feeble, and none suspected the slumbering powers of an 
enthusiastic mind in his first public lectures. But his 
voice grew soft, so that his later hearers in the Florentine 
Cathedral could hardly recognize its full, sonorous tones, 
and the impassioned, breathless eloquence of the speaker, 
as belonging to the harsh, caustic preacher of Ferrara. 
Savonarola himself believed the change to be miraculous, 
and declared that he could distinctly mark the moment of 



94 SKETCH OF THE 

inspiration. The fame of his eloquence spread abroad ; and, 
after preaching in various cities, he was invited by Piero 
de Medici, in 1485, to come to Florence. He travelled on 
foot as a pilgrim, with scrip and staff; fell ill on the road 
from exhaustion ; and was relieved by a mysterious stranger, 
who accompanied him en the road to Florence, and, taking 
leave of him at the gate, was never seen afterwards. 

In Florence, the effect of his preaching was everywhere 
penetrating. He saw the church corrupted ; the shepherds 
sunk in sloth and indulgence ; and, without doubting the 
tenets of the church, he labored to effect a thorough reform. 
He ventured to use the language of prophecy ; and, be- 
lieving himself inspired, he would often assert authorita- 
tively from the pulpit, " God wills thus and thus, and 
it must be done." But with his religion he intermingled 
politics. Liberty was to him second only to religion ; and, 
as he visited Florence when the influence of Lorenzo was 
paramount, he did not hesitate to preach against his 
tyranny with the utmost sternness and penetration. The 
Medici believed themselves so sure of their prey, that they 
did not fear his invectives ; nay, they taunted the Flo- 
rentines that this was a proof of their liberty (so surely 
lost). Savonarola was stern, resolved, and dignified to the 
Medici. He rejected every overture of friendship from 
Lorenzo, and feared lest the slightest mark of respect 
might be construed into a recognition of Medicean autho- 
rity. 

We are reminded of the sternness, the uncompromising 
republicanism, of John Knox. Savonarola went very far. 
Carried away by his enthusiasm, he ventured audaciously to 
assert from the pulpit, that he had gone up to heaven as 
ambassador from Florence, and that Jesus Christ had, in 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 95 

consequence, assumed the sovereignty of the city. " And 
yet," says Machiavelli, " this man persuaded the Florentines, 
who were neither dull nor ignorant, that he had spoken with 
God;" and adds, "I will not pretend to judge whether it 
be true or not, because of such a man we must speak with 
reverence. But I do say, that an infinite number believed 
him, without having seen any thing to make them believe ; 
because his life, his doctrines, the subjects of his discourse, 
were sufficient to inspire faith." Savonarola had, no doubt, 
a great deal of political acuteness ; and Machiavelli referred 
to his sagacity. 

After the death of Lorenzo, Piero Medici obtained the 
supremacy ; but was soon banished, and the French 
influence was paramount. During these troubles, Savo- 
narola still preached. He declared it as of divine ordi- 
nation that a popular government should be established 
on such a basis, that the liberty of the many should not 
be disturbed by the few. He preached, first, the fear of 
God ; secondly, the love of country ; thirdly, piety and 
mercy toward enemies ; and, fourthly, such a govern- 
ment, that no citizen should be able to exalt himself 
above his equals. Savonarola prevailed, and a new form of 
government was finally created, the most striking feature 
of which was the appeal, allowed to all condemned persons, 
to the General Council ; which prevented the Seigniory from 
lightly condemning the citizens to death. Savonarola 
declared from the pulpit that God willed the law, and 
therefore it must be passed ; and it was passed. The Flo- 
rentine constitution was thus finally placed on a broad, 
democratic basis ; and Savonarola was the principal author 
of it : but it was to be only a gleam of freedom before 
the long night of darkness that was soon to settle upon the 



96 SKETCH OF THE 

unfortunate city. Savonarola was everywhere present, 
preaching and counselling. His principle was universal 
good. His knowledge of human nature and public affairs 
was that of a statesman and a man of the world, not that of 
a cloistered monk. If he was himself an enthusiast, he 
knew, as Calvin did, how to govern others by means of 
their superstition ; but he was far from being, like Calvin, 
a bigot, and was never so much the dupe of his own 
feelings that he could not wisely use them to obtain his 
favorite ends. He declared Charles VIII. a 'scourge 
sent from God to punish crime and reform the church, 
and maintained the French alliance in spite of the 
murmurs of the people. When Charles wished to return 
from his northern expedition tlirough Florence, and 
the people trembled for fear of his soldiers, Savonarola 
boldly set out as a professed messenger from God ; and 
finally, by his predictions, protestations, and denuncia- 
tions, he prevailed on the king to turn aside, and leave 
Florence in peace. He then labored for the establishment 
of the new constitution, but never interfered in the details of 
government. He sought to establish the great principles 
of justice and order. " I wish none of you," he says in 
one of his sermons, — "I wish none of you to be under 
obligations to me. I wish to be free. I wish to tell you of 
this ; but you will not believe it. You write abroad that I 
interfere in the affairs of state : you know it to be false. 
I address you only in general terms about good laws and 
good manners ; but with the administration of state I do not 
trouble myself. Do this, then : let your first object be to 
make yourselves good Christians." 

The pope trembled at the denunciations of Savonarola. 
His hour was approaching : he had aroused enemies in 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 



97 



every corner of Florence. The nobles were dissatisfied at 
their loss of power, and the people found less immediate 
gain in order than they expected ; while the whole body 
of the priesthood were his deadly foes. Fra Domenico di 
Pescia offered, in his zeal, to prove the truth and heavenly 
inspiration of Savonarola's doctrine, by the fiery ordeal, if 
necessary. The adverse order of Franciscans seriously 
took up this gauntlet ; and their conduct was highly ap- 
proved by the pope, who thus addressed the monk of St. 
Francis : "So humble and confound the pertinacity of Fra 
Girolamo. There have not been wanting those amongst you 
who have proposed to throw themselves into the flames. 
It is our duty highly to commend this your devotion and 
zeal." Savonarola implored the prayers of his people, in 
one of his sermons, if he should be called to this trial. He 
was instantly stopped by loud and eager cries of " Ecce ! 
ego — ecce! ego transibo per ignem." But he checked 
their ardor by asserting that he neither proposed nor ac- 
cepted the proof, although it had been suggested many 
times by his adversaries ; that whoever might be elected 
by the Almighty to enter the fire, and whoever might 
be sent to the proof, would without doubt, through 
God's help, come out uninjured from the flames ; and, if 
he believed otherwise, he never would place anybody in 
such peril, or himself in danger of being the destroyer of 
his own loving and aifectionate children. " What astounds 
me," says Muratori, " is, that this terrible proof, not having 
been in use for many centuries, should finally be proposed 
by men of priestly character, in the end of the fifteenth 
century ; and that Girolamo Savonarola, a man no less 
celebrated for his piety than his learning, consented to it." 
But, although Savonarola's discouragement of the trial 

13 



98 SKETCH OF THE 

proves that he was not completely blinded by his enthu- 
siasm, it was not so amongst his followers ; and even 
women and children, confident that he would come out 
unharmed, were eager to have him enter the flames. Sa- 
vonarola was perhaps carried away by the people's enthu- 
siasm ; or perhaps he felt, that, if he did not accept the 
test, he would lose all respect among his followers ; and, 
after having spent so many years in the greatest honor, he 
preferred death to a life of obloquy. Perhaps he felt that 
resistance was vain ; and finally he accepted the challenge 
of Francisco di Puglio, who wisely declined entering the 
flames with any but the great heretic himself. 

The Seigniory consented to the trial. On the 7th of 
April, 1498, the great square of the palace was lined with 
armed men and crowded with citizens^ impatient for the 
ceremony. A scaffolding five feet from the ground, ten 
feet broad, and eighty long, extending from the corner of 
the Ringhiera toward the Telia de Pisani, was seen flanked 
on each side by a thick wall of dry wood and other com- 
bustibles, piled on a solid foundation of earth and baked 
bricks, so as to resist any degree of heat ; and through the 
centre there was a narrow path, less than two feet wide, by 
which the expected martyrs were to pass between the burn- 
ing piles. A long line of Franciscan friars silently escorted 
their champion to the lodge destined for his reception. 
Then moved the more pompous procession of Savonarola, 
who came in priestly garments, holding the sacred host in 
his hands. By his side was Fra Domenico, similarly attired, 
carrying a crucifix, followed by a dark procession of 
friars, all bearing red crosses, and accompanied by a multi- 
tude of nobles and other citizens, with lighted torches in 
honor of the sacrament. The Dominicans sang hymns. 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 99 

The Franciscans preserved their taciturnity. Suddenly, 
when the trial was to begin, although the day had been 
unusually fine, there fell a deluge of rain, and extinguished 
the fire. It was considered as an omen from heaven of the 
divine displeasure. 

The people sullenly retired. By a sudden and not 
strange revulsion of feeling, all the enthusiasm which had 
been lavished on Savonarola was now turned against 
him. He saw the signs of the times, and rightly inter- 
preted them. On Palm Sunday he preached a short, 
earnest, and pathetic sermon, offering himself as a sacrifice 
to God, and pronouncing his benediction upon his flock, 
calmly and firmly, though not without causing much emo- 
tion among his auditors. Savonarola's friends and enemies 
now began to arm themselves. In the middle of an even- 
ing sermon by one of his friends, the cry " To arms ! to 
St. Mark's ! " echoed through the Cathedral ; and instantly 
an armed crowd rushed in several divisions towards that 
convent, calling on the citizens to take arms. Savonarola 
was not undefended, though most of his followers had fled. 
For a long time he held St. Mark's against his enemies; 
but, as the Seigniory winked at every disorder, the doors 
of the convent were finally burst open. Savonarola was 
taken prisoner ; and, in one night, the government changed 
hands, and with it the manners and morality which Savo- 
narola had so long maintained in decency. He was now 
put to the torture by his enemies ; and, being of a weak 
and delicate frame, he wrote down a confession that suited 
his tormentors. But, at the moment of his release from the 
rack, he declared that he could not answer for the truth of 
words uttered under the torture. Again he^^as tormented, 
and again asserted that what he had preached was true as 



100 SKETCH OF THE 

to doctrine and prophecy ; that he could be convicted 
of no civil crime ; and that he would affirm and retract as 
many times as he was put under the tormentor's hands. 
He was then sent to prison for a month ; and, while there, 
he composed a commentary upon the fifty-first Psalm, — 
the " Miserere mei, Deus," — which he had omitted in a 
previous exposition of the Psalms, declaring that he had 
reserved it for his own tribulation. 

The public reasons given at Florence for Savonarola's 
condemnation were his prophecies against Rome and her 
licentious prelates, — namely, that God would soon reform 
the Church, that for their crimes the late evils had been 
inflicted on Italy, — and his wish to set up a tyrant in 
Florence ; and, on the confession which they extracted 
from him under torture, he was condemned, by the pre- 
judgment of the pontiff, to suffer death. On the 23d of May, 
1498, a new scaffold was built on the scene of the former 
trial. A post was erected upon it, and at its foot were piled 
brushwood and other combustibles. Upon the top of the 
post was nailed a transverse beam, on which Savonarola 
and his companions were to be hung in chains ; but, this 
gallows forming a cross (as it was suddenly discovered), 
each arm was sawed off, yet not so closely but that the 
crucial form was still visible. Savonarola, and his two 
companions, Domenico and Salvestro, were solemnly de- 
graded from their order, and, their habits being stripped 
off, were brought forward to be executed. Domenico was 
silent. Salvestro said, " Into thy hands, Lord ! I com- 
mend my spirit." And again, when the priest, in the act 
of degradation, erroneously pronounced, " I separate thee 
from the Church militant and triumphant ! " he calmly 
replied, "No, not from the triumphant!" but spoke no 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 101 

other word, and calmly proceeded to the gallows. When 
these three martyrs had perished, their bodies were burned, 
and the ashes cast into the Arno. 

Thus perished, in the forty-sixth year of his age, Girola- 
mo Savonarola, — "a man," says Muratori, "worthy of a 
better fate, from the austerity of his life, rare knowledge, 
and force and zeal in preaching the word of God. He was 
of unblemished habits, of singular warmth and piety, and 
wholly bent on the spiritual good of the people, with other 
uncommon endowments, indicating a true servant of God." 
With the constitution which was formed under the aiispices 
of Savonarola died the last gleam of Florentine freedom. 
Piero Medici returned, strengthened in power, as an un- 
successful effort for freedom only binds the fetters of the 
slave more firmly upon him ; and Florence sank, resigned 
to her fate. The world, perhaps, has never seen a family 
offering a succession of individuals so distinguished by 
talents and crime as that of the Medici. It has been 
customary to laud them as the patrons of literature, and as 
the fathers of their country. But the truth is, they 
trampled upon its liberties ; and they were ready to sell it 
to foreigners, if they could administer to their own paltry 
vanity. They made use of their power to enrich themselves 
at the expense of the people ; and, entering the market as 
princes who were still merchants, they drove out all com- 
petitors. Then they enhanced the ecclesiastical power to a 
most dangerous extent, and secured to foreigners that influ- 
ence in the affairs of state which they had never lost. As 
regards their patronage of literature, this has been greatly 
over-rated. The genius of the Medicean age was born of 
the republic. Dante, the glory of his age, and the blessing 
of all mankind, and the witty Boccaccio, were born in a 



102 SKETCH OF THE 

free community ; and Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, 
Cellini, Masaccio, Andrea del Sarto, and hosts of other 
shining names, were the offspring of republican Florence, 
though they shone in the Medicean court. The Medici 
never checked, indeed, the growth of genius ; but the affla- 
tus was given long before. They did worse : they extin- 
guished the spirit of freedom, which is the life of genius ; 
and the Florentines, enslaved and degraded, could only 
look back to a glorious past, and forward to a future 
shrouded in darkness. As a proof of their fatal influence 
on the prosperity of their country, we need but compare 
the state of Florence at the opening of the fifteenth century 
and at the close of the sixteenth. 

From humble beginnings, Florence became a great and 
powerful city. In our cursory remarks, we have shown 
how, with some idea of a free government, she was yet 
most despotically ruled. But the government of faction is 
always energetic ; and the oppression was more willingly 
borne, as the people felt, that, in the onward roll of the 
wheel of fortune, every spoke, in turn, comes uppermost. 
Though Florence suffered, she still became great. Her cor- 
porate trades held together, even when their strength was 
gone, and while religion, politics, and commerce went hand 
in hand. Although within she was bleeding at every pore, 
without she presented a mass united, ready, and impetuous. 
She fell from those causes which ruin most republics. 
War and faction weakened her ; faction was never ex- 
hausted; monopolies spread like a network around the 
land ; and her revenues were lessened, while her expenses 
did not decrease. When she came into the hands of the 
Austrians, she was but the shadow of herself. Hers, the 
more brilliant story, is, in substance, that of the other 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 103 

unhappy republics of Italy. All vainly struggled against 
faction within, and enemies without ; all suffered the same 
fate. For a season, the Austrian dominion was fortunate 
for Florence ; as, under the wise administration of Leopold, 
the marshes were drained, — that herculean task ; trade was 
freed from vexatious monopolies ; there was greater per- 
sonal security ; and more of real, if not so much of nominal, 
liberty. But Florence suffers, as well as the rest of Italy, 
for the want of a strong central power. Many of her wisest 
men regard the rise and progress of the free cities as the 
cause of her present degradation, and think that in Italy, as 
in Holland, they really have prevented a continued progress 
in civilization. Had any one race of barbarians thoroughly 
conquered the country, there might have arisen, as in the 
other countries of Europe, a central power which would 
have united the discordant elements of society ; given the 
people a homogeneous character ; and enabled them to go 
on, in one mass, towards a higher and better civilization. 

" In the commercial administrations of the middle ages," 
says M. Meger, " in the Dutch free cities, the opposition of 
petty interests, and the continual though unimportant vexa- 
tions which the oligarchy permitted itself, enervated the 
national character, cankered souls, and rendered men far 
less fit for liberty, far more incapable of feeling its benefits, 
far more unworthy of enjoying them, than the most abso- 
lute Asiatic despotism." Caesar Borgia felt this, and, by his 
wise and firm administration of Romagna, set a good 
example to all Italy. There was a prospect, after the peace 
of Constance in the thirteenth century, that the Northern 
States would unite in some form of confederate govern- 
ment ; but a confederate government required more po- 
litical knowledge than the people possessed. They had not 



104 SKETCH OF THE 

been taught by experience and suffering to lay aside local 
animosities ; and the favorable moment passed, never to 
return again. Italy cannot now expect a good form of 
government from foreigners ; for every good government 
must be native, suited to the wants and tastes of the 
people. How can her Transalpine masters understand her 
interests ? And, if they do, tliey must be constantly repug- 
nant to her tastes. In the rest of Europe, it took centuries 
to nationalize the conquests of the barbarians, after the 
decline and fall of the Roman empire ; but, in Italy, the 
sovereignty has been constantly changing. Nor have her 
masters shown her the same mercy and regard which the 
barbarians did to the Romans : for the barbarians needed 
the law, the government, the civilization, of the Romans ; 
but the Spaniards, French, Austrians, and Russians, who 
have successively trampled on the rights of the Ita- 
lians, have despised the people they conquered, and have 
looked upon the country as a battle-ground, — a place for 
ravage and rapine, not as a permanent home. 

But, if Italy cannot look abroad for a government which 
shall bring peace into her distracted borders, what hope 
has she within herself? She has no body of people who 
can give an impulse to society, and direct its movements. 
Her nobles are poor and exiled ; most of them cannot prove 
their titles; and their only present hope is in revolution. 
She has no farmers, no small landholders, attached to the 
soil and the institutions of the country : and her people are 
wholly uneducated in government ; for she has no institu- 
tions. There is nothing of slower growth than institutions. 
Men are too prone to rely on legislation, on human wis- 
dom, for the formation of governments. There is too ready 
a disposition to look to outward arrangements for that 



HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 105 

amelioration of human affairs which can come only from 
the culture and progress of the soul. Italy knew not how 
to wait for this slow improvement ; and she has, as yet, 
nothing to improve. The process of government to her is 
that of formation ; for she has nothing purely Italian, — 
nothing which has made patriotism a domestic feeling 
among the people. However wise the system which her 
patriots in their discretion may form, it must be defective 
in theory ; and there must be a constant reliance on the 
good sense of the people to modify and correct its defective 
action. But what can we expect from the Italians, wholly 
uneducated in government, and accustomed to misrule ? 
We do not hesitate to say, that they would not respect 
a good government ; for that demands a love of law, — a 
submission to law, as law, as the higher authority, even 
when it is not in consonance with the wishes of many of 
the people. This deference to law as the higher autho- 
rity is characteristic of the American and Englishman ; 
but there is no love of law among the Italians. The appeal 
to force has so long been the only appeal to justice, that 
they cannot readily comprehend the slow and peaceable 
agency of public opinion in correcting grievances. Can 
Italy look for some despot, who may arise among her own 
people, as her deliverer? The process of the formation 
of a good government, under a succession of tyrants, is too 
terrible and dangerous to be desired. Italy is already 
too willing to be a slave ; and we doubt if any despotism is 
salutary, save that which governs a naturally good, but 
young, ill-directed people. What can she expect from the 
pope ? There was an unreasonable expectation on the 
accession' of the present pope, justified neither by the past, 
nor by the motives which must necessarily influence a pope. 

14 



106 SKETCH OF THE HISTORY OF FLORENCE. 

Where have the popes used their temporal power more 
viciously than in Italy, so far as they have governed the 
country ? When they were the allies of tlie rising free 
cities, the cities paid dear for this friendship, — not, indeed, 
sinking under a civil tyranny, but degraded by the religion 
they despised. There was a poison constantly instilled 
into their best institutions by the presence of a slothful, 
avaricious, luxurious clergy ; and, although there was 
never any lack of reformers, the people were never will- 
ing to give up allegiance to a religion which gratified 
their passions. It is impossible, indeed, for the pope to be 
a good sovereign ; for he does not respect individual reason. 
The same canker which lies at the root of his spiritual 
must also destroy his temporal power. He believes himself 
or the church the embodiment of spiritual truth ; and that 
belief will be, as it has been, carried into temporal affairs. 
While he insists that there is but one truth, he does not 
allow that it is many-sided, seen from many different 
points of view, and with various powers of vision. We 
hope as little from the modern revolutionary patriots ; for 
they are not of the people, but very far beyond them. 
We do not think that the time has yet come for Italian 
liberty. There must be some stronger cause of union from 
without or within, more suffering, greater experience, be- 
fore the Italians will lay aside their animosities, and go 
forward as one people. That day will surely come, — how 
or when, we know not; but we believe in the perfecti- 
bility of the human race, and its constant progress towards 
perfection. 



107 



PASCAL, 



Great men are the exponents of the civilization of their 
age and country ; for they express in their works and acts, 
in a distinct form, the ideas and movement of the people. 
For that reason their biography is always interesting, as it 
is, in one sense, the history of their times. This is particu- 
larly the case with Blaise Pascal, who ranks among the 
most distinguished men of the seventeenth century, — a 
century prolific in great men, and which forms an era in 
French history. In that age, Louis XIY. gave unity and 
force to France as a kingdom ; Corneille and Moliere, the 
fathers of French tragedy and comedy, appeared ; Des- 
cartes directed philosophical speculations in Europe ; and, 
lastly, Pascal himself, the great geometrician, the powerful 
antagonist of the Jesuists, furnished the first specimens of 
truly elegant French prose composition. 

Pascal was of a good family ; and his father, Stephen 
Pascal, was President of the Court of Aids in Clermont. 
Being left a widower with three children, — two daughters 
and the young Blaise, — Stephen Pascal resigned his office, 
and removed to Paris in 1631, in order to give his children 
a better education than the provinces afforded. Blaise 
was then eight years old. In Paris his father soon collected 
around him all the most celebrated geometricians and phi- 



108 



PASCAL. 



losophers of his time ; and their weekly meetings were 
the cradle of the Academy of Sciences established by 
Louis XIV. in 1666. Pascal soon gave evidence of his 
genius; for, at twelve, he composed a treatise on Sound. 
He seems thus early to have attracted the attention of 
Eichelieu ; for when his father was banished for some mis- 
understanding between liimself and the powerful minister, 
but was restored at the instance of his daughter Jacqueline, 
he said to him, " Live for your children ; for I wish to make 
something great of them." There is nothing remarkable 
in these early works, except as they are the productions of 
a child, and the child was father of the man. The treatise 
on Conic Sections, which Pascal himself most valued, and 
re-edited in after-years, he says, was principally taken from 
the writings of Desarques, one of the most eminent ma- 
thematicians of his time. He invented an arithmetical 
machine to assist his father in the collection of taxes in 
Rouen, to which post he was appointed by the king ; but it 
failed from being too complicated, and was finally perfected 
by Mr. Babbage. 

In 1646, he turned his attention to the experiments of 
Torricelli on the rise of water and mercury in tubes. Ar- 
chimedes had proved both the weight and equilibrium of 
fluids ; but the laws he had established with regard to water 
and other liquids had not been applied to the air, nor had 
any progress been made in hydrostatics from the time of 
Archimedes to that of Galileo. The latter proved the den- 
sity of the air, but was not ready to use his own deductions ; 
for, when the workmen of Cosmo de Medicis wished to raise 
water in pumps higher than thirty-one feet, and failed, he 
asserted that the water followed the piston of the pump, 
from the horror which nature felt of a vacuum, but that 



r A s c A L. 109 

this horror was not felt beyond thirty-one feet. He does not 
appear, however, to have been satisfied with this solution, 
as he gave the problem to Torricelli, who immediately began 
making experiments both with water and mercury. 

In 1645, Torricelli published an essay, in which he asserted 
that the cause of the suspension of water in pumps, and 
of mercury in tubes, was to be found in the pressure of the 
mass of air above the reservoir ; but, unfortunately, he died 
before his experiments were completed. Pere Mersenne, a 
savant who had been travelling in Italy, informed Pascal of 
the labors and experiments of Torricelli ; and he enthusiasti- 
cally set to work to verify them. He concluded, that, if his 
theories were true, the mercury and water in tubes must 
stand at different heights at different altitudes. This he 
proved satisfactorily by his experiments. He was bitterly 
attacked by M. Noel, Rector of the College at Paris. He 
replied ; and the war began on scientific, only to end more 
gloriously on theological ground. 

Eager to throw some of the odium of their defeat upon 
their conqueror, the Jesuits asserted that Pascal was a pla- 
giarist, and had stolen from Descartes, Torricelli, and a 
Pole, Yalerien Magni. Pascal answered with bitterness, 
and some of the irony of the " Provincial Letters " appears 
in these replies to the Jesuit rector. Yet Pascal neither 
had, nor did he pretend to, originality in his labors. He 
fastened but one link in the chain of evidence that proved 
barometrical truths. Galileo proved the weight of the air ; 
Torricelli conjectured that density was the cause of the 
suspension of water in pumps, and mercury in tubes ; and 
Pascal had the merit of converting conjecture into certainty. 
The equilibrium between the air and mercury being esta- 
blished, it remained only to ascertain their relative weights ; 



110 PASCAL. 

and, since Pascal's day, philosophers have been laboring to 
ascertain the causes of variation in the barometer, and to fix 
the law of compression. But the greater variation of the 
barometer in the high latitudes than at the tropics has 
hitherto eluded their research ; for they have in vain at- 
tempted to explain it by the efflux of winds, and by the 
increase of heat, or of humidity in the atmosphere. 

Pascal was always diligent in mathematical study, and, 
during a night of extreme bodily suifering, solved some of 
the most difficult problems of the roulette. Pere Mersenne 
had demanded of the mathematicians of Europe, " What 
figure a given point in the circumference of a wheel de- 
scribes in its motion round and forward." He called this 
figure a roulette ; but it was afterwards termed a trochoid, 
and now bears the name of cycloid. For fourteen years, it 
had puzzled mathematicians ; and Roberval and Torri- 
celli had given only imperfect solutions of the problems 
it involved. Pascal solved them all, and offered prizes for 
solutions to be given on a certain day, when he would ex- 
plain his own method. Again a Jesuit, Pere Lallouere of 
Toulouse, appeared on the arena, inspired with the spirit of 
Pere Noel, with no more information, and little better success. 
Under his assumed name of Dettonville, Pascal demanded 
either an exact calculation, or a perfect geometrical demon- 
stration, in which last case, errors of calculation were excu- 
sable. Lallouere at first sent a calculation, which he soon 
retracted as imperfect ; and it was also proved, that Roberval 
and Torricelli had treated similar cases : but with the utmost 
boldness he asserted, that he would not publish his solu- 
tions until Pascal published his. Full of contempt for the 
father, Pascal complied ; and, a year afterwards, Lallouere 
had the effrontery to publish Pascal's solutions as liis own. 



PASCAL. Ill 

With these calculations, Pascal took leave of geometry and 
science ; and, three years afterwards, he took leave of life. 
This great man made no important additions to science ; 
but his scientific career had been brilliant, and he was the 
precursor of greater men than himself. Huyghens acknow- 
ledged, that Pascal's labors on the cycloid had furnished 
him with the means of measuring the oscillations of the 
pendulum, and that there was but one step necessary from 
his arithmetical triangle to the binomial theorem of Newton. 
Poisson expressed his astonishment, that Pascal finished his 
labors on the cycloid without arriving at the infinitesimal 
calculus. He owed to him the foundation of tlie doctrine of 
chances. Laplace, one of the best of judges, numbered 
Pascal among the eleven great mathematicians of the world. 
Yet, had he not written the " Provincial Letters " and the 
" Thoughts," he would not have been immortalized in science. 

We often recall the remarks of Bossuet, in comparing the 
honors and duration of works of art and science. In science, 
the labors of one age overlay and cover up the works of 
another, and recent discoveries add to their own the honors 
of the past. But in art fresh laurels are gathered every 
day ; and, after three thousand years. Homer is still young in 
glory and immortality. Perhaps this is because science 
springs from the necessities and relations of man as man ; 
while art is the realization of the ideal, and is immortal as 
the soul. 

The ardent and vigorous mind of Pascal could not endure 
idleness, and he left mathematics only to enter more vigor- 
ously into theological discussion. At this time, there was a 
fierce war waging between the followers of Jansenius, or the 
Port Royalists, and the Jesuits; and it is not difficult to fore- 
see to which side the prejudices of Pascal would incline him. 



112 PASCAL. 

" Port Royal des Champs," so called to distinguish it 
from " Port Royal de Paris," the town-residence of the 
abbess, was an abbey, about six miles distant from Versailles. 
The abbess, Angelique Arnaud, had already distinguished 
herself by the severity of discipline she had introduced into 
the abbey ; and she and her sister nuns were a band of intel- 
lectual women, of whom their antagonists could only say, 
that they were pure as angels, but proud as demons. In 
the hamlets of La Grange, near the abbey, the Arnauds, 
brothers of the abbess, and other pious men, had fixed their 
residence, in order to propagate the doctrines of Jansen, 
Bishop of Ypres, and the Abbot of St. Cyran. 

In the early ages of the church, the constant terror of 
death, and the labor of propagating the simple truths of re- 
ligion, had bound Christians together, and prevented the 
discussion of doctrinal points. Then alone the church had 
some right to the proud claim of unity. But scarcely was 
peace obtained without before the war began in the sanctu- 
ary. Arianism, Nestorianism, Pelagianism, and numerous 
other " isms," were the constant themes of discussion, 
remonstrance, reception, and anathema in the church. 
Some of these questions were peculiar to Christianity ; but 
some had vexed the human mind and perplexed the reli- 
gions of all ages. 

Predestination and free-will had always been the doctrines 
of extreme parties since the mind began to reflect. Even 
Mahometanism, which has predestination for a fundamen- 
tal article of the creed, asserts and modifies it in the two 
parties of Omar and Ali. In this it is true to human nature. 
The difficulty lies in proving- either side ; for it is as im- 
possible to conceive of an infinite succession of causes, — the 
doctrine of the one party, — as it is of an immediate, final 



PASCAL. 113 

cause, and at the same time to conceive of man as a rational, 
moral, and accountable being, — the doctrine of the other 
party. While nature positively asserts the individual free 
will of man, reason stands appalled before the influence of 
an infinite Mind ; and philosophers and theologians attempt 
in vain to reconcile the convictions of nature with the de- 
ductions of reason and religion. 

In the fifth century, Pelagius, an English monk, wrote a 
work, in which he took the extreme side of free-will ; regard- 
ing grace not as absolutely indispensable, but as giving 
liberty more facility to act. Such doctrines immediately 
called out the opposition of the other party ; and St. Augus- 
tine, who had already distinguished himself in the contro- 
versy with the Manicheans, gained such honor in this, 
that he was thenceforward styled the " Doctor of Grace." 
Pelagius was pursued by the anathemas of twenty-four 
councils, and by the bulls and decrees of seven pontiffs and 
four emperors ; but the question was not settled in a church 
believing in its own infallibility. 

We do not see how a Roman Catholic can well be any 
thing but a predestinarian, disregarding as he does the 
rights of individual reason, and presuming on the imme- 
diate reception of divine knowledge. Pelagianism yielded 
for a time, or appeared only in a mitigated form, in Marseilles 
and the Lerins Isles, where many men distinguished for 
piety and intellect had retired ; but St. Augustine and Prosper 
attacked it with renewed vigor, and the mind seemed for a 
time content in error. The monk Gotteschalk asserted, 
that some men were predestined to eternal damnation ; that 
Christ had died only for the elect ; and that free-will itself 
was annihilated after the fall. Hincmar asserted the con- 
trary, through the pen of the famous Aquinas ; but the pope 

15 



114 PASCAL. 

silenced the latter, and adopted all the absurdities of Got- 
teschalk. 

In the fourteenth century, Wickliffe, the precursor of Lu- 
ther, took the extreme side of predestinarianism. Indeed, 
the first Protestants were not reformers, either in doctrine or 
discipline. The rights of individiial reason constituted the 
real point at issue between the Protestants and the Roman- 
ists. The church had never wanted reformers in discipline, 
— such men as Savonarola and Arnaud of Brescia, who 
were ready to sacrifice themselves for its purity ; and never 
had she been more willing to reform abuses than at the 
Council of Trent. 

In doctrine, Augustine would have hailed Luther as 
a brother divine. The latter asserted.that free-will became a 
slave by the will of God, and entitled one of his works "' De 
Servo Arbitrio ; " and his followers built up the monstrous 
theory, that the commands of God are impossible ; that the 
virtues of philosophers are vices ; that violence alone is 
repugnant to liberty ; and that every voluntary act, even if 
necessary, is free. To which Calvin added a dogma of his 
own, — that the elect cannot fall from grace ; but that, in 
their worst crimes, they lose only the sentiment of grace, not 
grace itself. We gladly turn from such pitiable pictures of 
the weakness and fallibility of the human mind. 

It is a singular fact, that Protestantism worked a change 
in the doctrines of the church ; for the Jesuits, the avant- 
garde of Romanism, were inclined to Pelagianism, if their 
doctrines were not really a new birth of semi-Pelagianism. 
At the moment when the power of the church seemed fast 
crumbling away, Ignatius offered his assistance and that of 
his followers to the church : but he offered it at an immense 
price ; for, by the constitution of this purely monarchical 



PASCAL. 115 

society, it was to be governed by the superior alone, who 
should owe allegiance to the pope, and not to the councils. 
We wonder, indeed, what the infallibility of the church is 
to a Jesuit ; since no true Catholic believes in the infalli- 
bility of the pope alone, but in that of the pope united with 
the councils ; and many of the councils have revoked the 
decrees of the popes ; as, for instance, the sixth council, 
which burned the decrees of Honorius. The obedience the 
Jesuits promised to the pope was merely nominal ; but the 
pope was pleased by the apparent accession of power. He 
looked upon the Jesuits as a pretorian guard ; forgetting 
that, like the pretorians, they might soon give laws to their 
masters. The church could not dispense with the assistance 
of the Jesuits ; and every thing conspired to give them all, 
and more than all, they wished. 

In 1588, Molina published his great work on free-will. 
In this he endeavored to establish a mean science, or the 
science of the future conditioned, which foresees that which 
must happen as a consequence of certain existing conditions, 
or that which would happen provided certain non-existing 
conditions were realized. If, for instance, God wishes to 
convert a sinner, "he seeks, in the innumerable treasures of 
grace, for those means which he foresees, by the mean 
science, will necessarily move the will. This is styled 
" efficacious grace." But, if he has no design specially to 
move the will, he sends only that ordinary grace which the 
sinner may or may not receive for his eternal salvation. 
This is called " sufficient grace." It does not appear, if 
we regard only efficacious grace, how the Jesuits escaped 
the difficulties arising from the divine foreknowledge, 
the necessity of grace, and the inequality of its distribu- 
tion. Such grace would, in effect, destroy free-will. The 



116 PASCAL. 

Jesuits endeavored to escape the inference by giving the 
greater part to sufficient grace in human destiny ; but 
their opponents, the Dominicans, or followers of St. Thomas, 
gave greater power to efficacious grace : and the pope and 
councils vainly tried to stop their dissensions. 

In 1640, the " Augustinus," a posthumous work of Jansen, 
Bishop of Ypres, appeared, when the contest was renewed 
more bitterly than ever. Jansen wished to re-assert the 
doctrines of Augustine, changed as they had been by 
the Jesuits ; and he ought certainly to have known the 
opinions of the saint, as he says that he had read all his 
works ten times, and his work against Pelagianism thirty 
times. The " Augustinus " is a stupid folio, and owes its 
celebrity to the contest it excited, and the writings it called 
forth. The Abb^ de St. Cyran, the friend of Jansen, lived 
after him to publish his work and dissemin^e his doctrines. 
This man, said Richelieu, was more dangerous than ten 
armies. It has been said that St. Cyran violently opposed 
the divorce of the Duke of Orleans to make way for the 
cardinal's niece. But this is incorrect : for Richelieu wished 
to marry his niece to the Count de Soissons ; but the king 
decidedly negatived the project. Nor does Richelieu appear 
to have entered very earnestly into the plans of the queen- 
mother for divorcing the Duke of Orleans. The grounds of 
his dislike to St. Cyran are to be found in his arbitrary tem- 
per, which could not brook dispute, and in his keen intellect, 
which foresaw the power of an energetic, restless mind like 
St. Cyran's. One can scarcely repress a smile at the 
expense of the good Abb^ de Maynard, who remarks that 
Richelieu was incapable of a personal hatred, and that his 
dislike to Jansen and his friend was purely religious and 
patriotic. 



PASCAL. 117 

St. Cyran retired to the vicinity of Port Eoyal, and soon 
acquired an unbounded influence over the abbess and her 
followers. The ungallant St. Jerome says that women are 
the most ready to receive error, as they are the most obsti- 
nate in defending it. Certainly, whether their doctrines 
were founded in error or in truth, the defenders of Jansen 
could not have wished more devoted friends than they 
found in the abbess and her sister nuns. 

In July, 1649, M. Cornet, syndic of the Faculty of the 
Sorbonne, submitted to that body seven propositions which he 
declared to be heretical, and which he said he had found in 
the " Augustinus." A sharp contest ensued : the Jansenists 
appealed to Parliament ; but finally a truce was made 
between the Jansenists and the Jesuits. The Jesuits were, 
however, faithless to this truce, and circxilated a condem- 
nation of the seven propositions, now reduced to five. 

These famous propositions, as condemned by the Jesuits, 
were the following : — 

1st, That the commands of Holy Writ are impossible, even to the 
just, unless grace have first rendered them possible. 

2d, That, in the present fallen condition of man, he cannot resist 
the action of grace. 

3d, That, in order to be accountable in this fallen state, absolute 
liberty is not indispensable : it is only necessary that there should 
be liberty of co-action. 

4th, The semi-Pelagian allowed that there must be grace ante- 
rior even to faith ; but they were heretics in this, that they believed 
the will could either resist or obey. 

5th, It is semi-Pelagianism to believe that Christ shed his blood 
for all men. 

After this, we do not understand how the Jansenists 
dared to assert, as they did, that they were not Calvinists ; 
nor, on the other hand, how the Jesuits could accuse them 



118 PASCAL. 

of heresy, with the authority of St. Augustine staring them 
in the face. The Jesuits sent their censure to Rome ; and 
three out of five of the Holy Tribunal approved their 
decision. 

It appears that the Jansenists were not treated with 
much fairness, as the pope constantly delayed giving them 
an audience. Perhaps we should hardly expect it from 
him, as the Jesuits were all-powerful with the great king 
and his greater minister, — a Jesuit being confessor to the 
prime minister. Nor do we wonder that he should hesitate 
about giving his infallible opinion on such doubtful subjects. 

Finally, Innocent X. characterized the five propositions 
as having three senses, — one Calvinistic, one Pelagian, and 
another " true and Catholic ; " and, as having more heresy 
than Catholicism, they were condemned. No mention was 
made of Jansen. 

The Jansenists then asserted that they yielded implicit 
obedience to the pope, but that the propositions, as under- 
stood by him and the Jesuits, were not to be found in Jan- 
sen's works. They declared that the pope and the councils 
were fallible on matters of fact, and adduced Pope Zachary 
as an example — who had anathematized St. Virgil for 
declaring that there were antipodes — in proof that neither 
popes nor councils could find in Jansen's works what was 
not there. The Jesuits, on the contrary, were diligent in 
bringing forward the Calvinistic bearing of the five proposi- 
tions, as well as the fact that they were found in the 
" Augustinus." 

A sharp contest ensued, when the doctors of Paris, with 
Cardinal Mazarin at their head, declared the five proposi- 
tions, as condemned by the pope, to be in the " Augustinus." 
Arnaud and others did not lay down their arms because of 



PASCAL. 1 19 

this decision ; but, soon afterwards, Pascal appeared with 
the " Provincial Letters," which absorbed the attention of 
France, and changed the character of the controversy. 
In his youth, Pascal had led a pure but unconsecrated life ; 
for, absorbed as he was in scientific pursuits, he had no 
time for the amusements of the world, or for the pursuit of 
the higher destinies of man. Yet his strong, ardent nature 
was capable of the deepest impressions ; and his feelings 
needed only to be turned into a purer channel to move 
with renewed energy. His sister Jacqueline, a kindred 
spirit, had retired to Port Royal, and there labored for his 
spiritual improvement as a religious duty. Ill health sub- 
dued his ambition ; and he finally united himself, from 
feeling and principle, to the fraternity of Jansenists, and 
showed himself eager to defend them against the Jesuits. 
But Pascal was no metaphysician : he had neither the 
education nor the temperament to be one. Nor did he 
attempt to untie the knot which fastens " sufficient " and 
" efficacious grace ; " but he endeavored to cut it with the 
keenest ridicule. Yet he is worthy of himself and his 
cause, only when he leaves theology to attack the depraved 
morality of the Jesuits. Nothing can exceed the fine irony, 
the bitter invective, and the well-arranged display of facts, 
in these remarkable letters. 

This wonderful Society of Jesus has been the terror both 
of princes and of the church, and has resisted the efforts ot 
power, time, and even the consequences of its monstrous 
wickedness, in an unparalleled manner, — so strong is the 
bond of union that holds it together. No absolute monarch 
was ever so absolute as the Superior General of the Jesuists ; 
for he controls not only the time, property, and lives of 
men, but also their souls. He owes but a nominal obe- 



1 20 PASCAL. 

dience to the pope, and an equally vague allegiance to the 
Society ; for he is chosen for life, as is the pope by the 
cardinals, and can be deposed only for a few specified 
crimes, from the imputation of which he is saved by his 
power and the pride and policy of the Society. The early 
Jesuits were able men, and took advantage of every weak- 
ness of the pope and the church. 

Paul V. granted them all the privileges, past, present, 
and to come, which mendicants ever did or should possess. 
Clement VIII. gave them equal privileges with the orders 
not mendicant ; while numerous succeeding popes granted 
them all the favors which universities and colleges had ever 
obtained. They possessed also the monopoly of some kinds 
of business ; as, for instance, that of drugs in Lyons and 
Rome. Gregory XIV. endeavored to complete the edifice 
by tying up the hands of his successors ; as he decreed, 
that, if a pope like Sextus V. should ever meddle with 
the Institute, it might be re-established by the Society or 
its general on its original basis, without the concurrence 
of the Holy See. 

In the seventeenth century, there were twenty thousand 
avowed Jesuits. It must, however, be remembered that 
large numbers of Jesuits have only taken vows of obe- 
dience, and remain laymen ; and that they admit into 
the fourth class only priests, or men distinguished for posi- 
tion or talents. By their perfect system of discipline and 
information, this large body of men moved with the energy 
of one man, and acted with more union of force than even 
a Spartan army. But ambition, their earliest vice, soon 
received avarice as a companion. There is no end to the 
supplications and remonstrances from orders, universities, 
and princes, to stop their aggressions ; and their cupidity 



PASCAL. 



121 



became so notorious, that even at Rome the clergy assured 
Pius v., that, if he did not repress them, they would soon 
seize upon all the benefices and parishes of that city. 

But their temporal power was less to be feared than their 
principles. Their doctors taught, that the divine law obli- 
gates the sinner, so far only as it is actually intimated to 
him, and present to his mind, at the time of sinning. If he 
does not at that moment reflect on the evil of the crime 
committed by him, he does not sin: if he reflects on its 
evil, but only regards it as contrary to reason and propriety, 
without thinking of God and eternal punishment, he sins, 
indeed, against reason, but not against God. This is merely 
philosophical sin, which merits only temporal punishment. 
They taught also the doctrine of probability, by which 
the contrary of every express command of God may be 
right. Thus, for instance, the right of self-defence, accord- 
ing to their theory, gives one the right to kill, contrary to 
the express command of God ; and the authority of any one 
doctor was sufficient to justify the sinner in the commission 
of any crime. Doctors were not wanting who made the 
law of God of none effect in every particular. The doctrine 
of probability was the extreme and worst form of expediency, 
and the ultimate conclusion of a system of ethics which 
made utility its point of departure. 

It is undoubtedly true, as the Ahh6 de Maynard asserts, 
that the casuistry of the Jesuists was the result of the scho- 
lastic subtleties of the day ; but it is none the less true, that 
it had poisoned the principles of the order. Indeed, there 
was only too much tru.th in the asseverations of the 
University of Paris to Louis XIII., declaring, " There is 
no article of religion which the Jesuits have not corrupted, 
and do not daily corrupt, by their unheard-of novelties. 

16 



122 P A S C A L. 

Christian morality has become a body of problematical 
opinions, and the laws of God have been sophisticated by 
their subtleties ; so that there is no longer any difference 
between vice and virtue. In short, their doctrines, inimical 
to all order, have resisted equally the power of kings and 
the authority of the hierarchy." 

At the moment of their most depraved morality and high- 
est power, Pascal stepped into the arena as the defender of 
a purer religion. The Jesuits, in vain, endeavored to 
deny the authority of their own fathers ; for their works 
were altogether too numerous, and their statements too ex- 
plicit. They tried, indeed, the efficacy of silence ; but their 
sins cried out from the ground against them. 

Perhaps a Catholic may appreciate the remark of the 
Abbe de Maynard, who thinks that Pascal did more harm 
to the church by exposing its errors, than he did good, espe- 
cially as the casuistical errors of the Jesuits were buried in 
folios which the people never opened. Pascal must have been 
astonished at his own success in the " Provincial Letters." 
He labored unweariedly in writing them, spending some- 
times twenty days upon one, while his friends assisted him 
in obtaining facts. They are equal to the famous Letters of 
Junius in invective and sarcasm, but are superior to them 
in delicacy and playfulness of wit ; while they are devoid 
of that bitter personal hatred which appears so much in 
Juniiis. In the " Provincial Letters," the reader imagines 
that he feels more than the writer. 

The Jesuits, finding argument of no avail, and their power 
declining every day, now used force to crush the Jansenists. 
A troop of archers, aided by the police, marched to the sanc- 
tuary of Port Royal, and drove out the masters, scholars, and 
recluses ; and an order of council was issued to eject every 



PASCAL. 



123 



scholar, postulant, and novice, both from their abbey in the 
jEields and their residence in the capital. But here a miracle, 
wrought by a piece of the crown of thorns in restoring a 
diseased eye of Margaret Perier, Pascal's niece, stayed for 
a while the arm of power. The Jesuits endeavored to 
prove some deception ; and the proofs of its being an unex- 
plained fact are not quite satisfactory to the incredulous 
minds of the present day : but the populace of that age 
believed it, and it saved the Jansenists for a season. 

Louis Xiy., however, yielded to the desires of the Jesuits. 
The Jansenists having refused to sign the anti-Jansenist 
formulary, novices and scholars were expelled from the 
monastery. The small schools were closed, and the higher 
functionaries were driven into exile or prison. The mother, 
Angelique Arnaud, soon died from her sufferings : so did 
Jacqueline Pascal. Indeed, she was the first victim ; and 
her letters and life aiford beautiful illustrations of the 
martyr-spirit, even in the seventeenth century. But the 
Jesuits never recovered : their death-blow was struck. 

Pascal was already worn out by ill-health, which he had 
increased by penance and fasting. During the last years of 
his life, he had lived like an anchorite. He denied himself 
all the luxuries which had become necessary to his comfort 
by habit, and which his delicate health seemed to demand. 
The furniture of his room, and his dress, indicated the most 
abject poverty ; and, though sickness had increased the 
natural delicacy of his stomach, he constantly took the most 
nauseous potions with apparent pleasure. He sought to 
subdue his pride by wearing a girdle of iron, armed with 
points, around his waist, and often gave himself blows to 
redouble his anguish. He denied himself the pleasures of 
mathematics, and even thought it wrong to evince any 



1 24 PASCAL. 

affection for his sisters and nieces. In neglecting mathemat- 
ics, he was the humble follower of his sister Jacqueline, 
who had a fine taste for poetry; but who, on entering, the 
Abbey of Port Royal, hid her one talent in a napkin, in 
the vain hope of pleasing her Master. We turn with pain 
and regret from such an instance of perverted feeling. But 
Pascal's error was the natural result of a sincere belief in 
a religion which seeks to degrade the body, — the poor slave 
of the mind, — and to weaken the soul by vain and exhaust- 
ing regrets. He wished, as some one has said, to make life a 
Theba'id or a Calvary. But the Saviour, his great Master, 
imposed no such torturing penance upon his followers : he 
merely bade them " go, and sin no more." 

During the intervals of freedom from pain, in his last ill- 
ness, Pascal wrote thoughts for a work he had long contem- 
plated as a defence of Christianity : but he died without 
finishing it ; and the scattered fragments were collected 
and published after his death. In this work he neither 
assumed, nor attempled to prove, the great truths of Chris- 
tian doctrine ; but he endeavored to sliow to the infidel the 
poverty and weakness of his intellect, and the inutility of all 
his efforts. With him, as with the Preacher, all is vanity, 
and man is but a shadow that fades in the morning ; and 
having nothing to lose, and all to gain, he endeavors to lead 
the poor infidel to the fountains of Jordan, which having 
once tasted, lie will never return to the waters of Marah. 
There is a great deal of truth in Pascal's philosophy ; 
for infidelity is more of the heart than of the mind. Many 
defenders of religion think, that, when the reason is con- 
vinced, nothing more is to be done ; but there is no moral 
obligation in the convictions of reason. Conviction should 
precede emotion : hut tlie objections of the infidel are gene- 



PASCAL. 125 

rally the mere ghost of reason, which always eludes the 
keenest sword in argument ; and Pascal wisely trusted to 
the affections to dispel the phantom. Yet the effect of his 
" Thoughts " is extremely depressing ; for so thick are the 
shadows he casts over the present life, that they darken even 
the future. As a literary work, it is doubtful whether the 
" Thoughts," even if completed, would have equalled 
the " Provincial Letters." They wanted their peculiar 
controversial interest ; and Pascal had not the calm, patient, 
impersonal habits of thought necessary for such a work. 
But, for fine writing, the " Provincial Letters " and the 
" Thoughts " were the earliest of elegant French prose com- 
positions. M. Cousin says that Pascal perfected the lan- 
guage which Descartes had created. Before Pascal, simple, 
natural writers, like Joinville and Froissart, had appeared ; 
but none of them had studied composition as an art. Even 
the more pretending Montaigne and Balzac had sought for 
piquancy in Gascon and Latin, at the expense of elegance 
and purity. Genius had been too largely patronized by the 
court ; for the numerous salons of Paris attracted the gifted 
plebeians, nurtured their self-complacency, and spoiled their 
style with the overwrought taste and diction of high 
life. This was justly satirized in the " Precieuses Ridi- 
cules " of Moliere ; for thought is vigorous and expansive, 
and style pure and national, only when the people are the 
judges and re warders of its merits. Pascal led the way in 
such writing; for opposed as he was to the Jesuits, and 
consequently to the court, his mind and heart escaped the 
influence of an over-refined society. 

Pascal died in 1662, at the early age of thirty-five ; but 
he had lived a long life of usefulness and renown. He had 
been the friend and partner of the greatest geometricians of 



126 PASCAL. 

his age, and had often led the way in mathematical and 
physical science ; his pen alone had been more powerful 
than the will of kings in overthrowing an established order, 
and had furnished a model for the future labors of 
genius ; while his life alone, says the celebrated Bayle, was 
worth more than a hundred sermons : for if, on many 
points, his conscience was unenlightened, there was an 
admirable and touching beauty in his daily charities and 
his entire self-abnegation. 



127 



MAHOMET.* 



When we read the history of so extraordinary a person as 
Mahomet, we very naturally inquire, What were the promi- 
nent features in his character ? and what important lessons 
can be learned from his life ? 

We first remark, that we do not find any thing in the 
education or circumstances of his early life which apparently 
imparted to his mind its remarkable direction, and particu- 
larly fitted him for the task of giving a religion to a nation. 
Born in the midst of an idolatrous and barbarous people, he 
was left an orphan at an early age, and was educated by his 
uncle, who, though of noble birth, was neither sufficiently 
powerful nor wealthy to give much aid to his nephew, 
even if he had favored his designs. Mahomet was fortunate 
in his marriage ; and, in his frequent journeys to the fairs 
to transact business for his wife, he must liave met with the 
followers of every religion, — Christians, Jews, and Idola- 
ters. But others of his tribe had the same opportunities : 
Mahomet alone made use of the information every one 
received. His education was more limited, it would seem, 
than that of most of his countrymen ; for the Koran 



* This article was read at a social meeting of the teachers of the South Parish 
Sunday School, Portsmouth, May 12, 1851. 



128 M A I! () M E T. 

expressly asserts that he was illiterate, and that he could 
not read or write, — an assertion which must be taken with 
some limitation. But he was certainly far from being dis- 
tinguished among his own people by birth, wealth, or 
education. His inspiration was in his own genius. There 
is nothing in his whole life which could be called remarka- 
bly fortunate : but he took advantage of every-day occur- 
rences ; he controlled circumstances ; he conquered diffi- 
culties ; and his life is a lesson to all who would be either 
good or great, that they must not ivait for, but make, 
the occasion. Mahomet was remarkable for faith, — faith 
in himself and his cause. He spent four years in repeated 
fasts, in solitude and contemplation ; and, in three years 
more, he had made but four proselytes, — his wife and ser- 
vant, who were his natural allies ; his cousin Ali, who was 
but a child ; and his friend Abubeker. After four years 
more of incessant labor, with his little band increased by a 
few more faithful adherents, he invited his relations to an 
entertainment, and announced himself to them as the Apos- 
tle of God. We cannot help picturing the Hashemites as 
they looked with surprise and contempt on their daring 
kinsman, demanding their obedience and reverence, with 
nothing to substantiate his claim but his own word. He 
was soon driven from the city of Mecca by the hatred of 
these relations ; but their persecutions gained him new 
friends. He succeeded in converting some travellers from 
Medina to his cause ; and, in the twelfth year of his labors, 
twelve men came from Medina, and swore allegiance to him 
at Mecca. In the year following, the deputies from Medina 
promised, in the name of their city, that, if he should be 
banished, they would receive him as a confederate, and 
obey him as a leader. " But if you are recalled to your 



MAHOMET. 129 

country," they asked, " will you not abandon your allies ? " 

— " All things are now common between us," replied Maho- 
met: "your blood is as my blood, your ruin as my ruin." 

— " But, if we are killed in your service, what will be our 
reward ? " — " Paradise," replied the prophet. 

He was equally confident in danger. Again driven from 
Mecca, he fled to the cave in Mount Thur with his friend 
Abubeker. " There are but two of us," said the trem- 
bling Abubeker. " Nay," cried Mahomet, " there is a 
third : it is God himself." Such faith, such patient perse- 
verance, could not but receive its reward. 

As soon as his numbers were sufficiently increased, he 
adopted a more effectual means of compassing his great ends, 
by uniting the power of the sword to the arts of persuasion. 
As he had never been discouraged by neglect, contempt, or 
reproaches, so he was equally undismayed by danger. 

From the Hegira, or flight from Mecca, to the day of his 
death, his career was one of violence and blood ; and the 
mind turns sickened and disgusted from such scenes of car- 
nage to the pure and peaceable religion of Jesus. But 
Mahomet was blinded by fanaticism, or thought, perhaps, 
that the end justified the means ; for he had been educated 
among a warlike people. With the same fearless faith in a 
better cause, what might he not have accomplished ? We 
believe that this faith proves him to have been an enthusiast, 
and not a hypocrite. If he had been a hypocrite, his acute 
mind must have weighed the smallness of his means, and 
the consequences of disappointment. The slow process of 
conversion would have damped his ardor, and the first 
reverses would have destroyed it. If he had been purely 
selfish, his followers would have discovered it ; for cunning 
always awakens cunning. But Mahomet believed in him- 

17 



130 MAHOMET. 

self, ill his own power of accomplisliing what he undertook, 
and must, to a great extent, have believed in the goodness 
of his cause. He perhaps blinded himself; but the effect 
was all the same. This faith, which enabled him to over- 
come so many difficulties, is the prime lesson to be learned 
from his life. 

But Mahomet's cause was greater than himself ; and he 
succeeded, not merely by his labor and perseverance, but 
because he was really a reformer. The Arabs had, indeed, 
some traditions of a purer faith ; and he offended no deeply 
rooted prejudices when he promulgated the unity of the 
Godhead. Yet he made it the sincere belief of the whole 
people ; and, by so doing, he elevated them from the pollu- 
tions of idolatry. Then he taught them, that, instead of the 
gross and cruel offerings lavished on idols, the Almighty 
demanded alms, prayer, and fasting, for a sacrifice. In his 
first message from Heaven with regard to prayer, the Mus- 
sulman was enjoined to pray fifty times a day ; but Mahomet 
announced to his followers, that, feeling the burden of such 
constant devotion, he had, by the permission of God, re- 
duced the number to five. He was wont to call prayer the 
pillar of religion and the key of paradise, and to say that 
there was no good in a religion wliich dispensed with it. 
Surely there was something ennobling in a religion which 
demanded so spiritual a worship of the omniscient, omnipre- 
sent God. Fasting was common, and perhaps necessary, to 
an Eastern people ; but, by inculcating the duty of charity, 
Mahomet breathed the feelings of his own heart. This virtue 
is a fundamental article of the Mahometan's creed ; and the 
Koran says, " Make not your alms of none effect by re- 
proaches or mischief, as he that layeth out what he hath to 
appear unto men to give alms." We have some very 



MAHOMET. 131 

curious fables as to the extent of the charity of the Maho- 
metan saints : but errors of excess prove sincerity of belief ; 
and, in making such devotion and such virtues the founda- 
tion of his religion, Mahomet was a benefactor to his people. 
There is much that is high-toned in the morality of the 
Koran, — much that is far superior to the religious intelli- 
gence of his day. There is, at the same time, much that 
is paltry : its theology is poor, its fatalism disheartening. 
Yet a few great ideas gave it success ; and it was be- 
cause Mahomet had so good a cause that he succeeded so 
well. But the Koran shines always with a borrowed lustre. 
Its most remarkable passages are evidently taken from the 
Bible ; the coincidence being often too striking to permit us 
to doubt that Mahomet was familiar with its contents, 
either from actually reading it, or hearing it from others. 
Only in these borrowed passages does the Koran shine, 
and it wants the unity and perfectness of the Bible. In 
every page we recognize the difference between the true and 
the false. Mahomet was wont to point to the beauty of his 
style as proof of his inspiration ; but, when compared with 
the sublime passages in Job, the highest flights in the 
Koran scarcely rise above the earth. We have thus touched 
on a few of the points which attract our attention in reading 
the life of Mahomet. We admire his genius, faith, and 
energy, and praise him for the good he effected ; but we 
cannot help remembering how the Mahometan has out- 
grown his religion, and is groaning under the burden of his 
imposture. We turn with gratitude to the simple and 
sublime teachings of the Saviour, which are adapted to 
every age and nation ; and which, while fitting man for the 
noblest moral and religious development here, prepare him 
for a higher life hereafter. 



132 



THE NEED OF A HIGHER INTELLECTUAL CULTURE 
AMONG SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHERS/ 



We question if there are any among us who would deny, in 
the abstract, the need of a higher intellectual culture, 
though they may deny it in practice ; but we fear that 
some deem their attainments quite sufficient for the per- 
formance of their duties as teachers of the young. If 
there are any such, the simple consideration, that from the 
treacherousness of man's memory, and the mental decline 
following his neglect of the intellectual powers, he must 
continually exert himself in order to keep the rank he 
has once obtained, should subdue every such self-satisfied 
thought. Besides this, no situation can long remain the 
same. The outward as well as the inward world is ever 
changing ; and, in every change, new reflections, new know- 
ledge, must be profitable, and may be necessary. But we 
wish to consider the duty of intellectual culture in a reli- 
gious point of view, and beg leave to present a few remarks 
in order to prove, first, That it is the will of God that we 
should cultivate the mind as well as the heart, even though 
this were not commanded by revelation ; secondly. That it 
is so commanded ; and, thirdly. That as teachers we hold a 
position which peculiarly claims intellectual culture. We 



* Kead at a social teachers' meeting. February, 1846. 



DUTY OF INTELLECTUAL CULTURE. 133 

can only touch at present on these points, as the time 
allotted us is short. 

In the first place, we all allow that God created the 
soul, and made it immortal. But he has also made it 
capable of infinite improvement : he has placed no limits 
to its progress, so far as we have yet discovered, but those 
of sense ; and from these it will be released by death. But 
wherefore has he done this ? Wherefore has he bestowed 
on man powers which make him a brother to the angels, 
and assured to him an immortality in which the mind as 
well as the heart will share ? 

God has made few things in which even we, with our 
failing sight, cannot discover marks of design ; and are there 
none in the most glorious of his works, — the mind ? Did 
he intend that this should always remain in the swaddling- 
bands of its infancy, satisfied with the humblest exertions ? 
Surely He who worked with the most noble aims, as we may 
perceive in the lower creation, had the highest end in 
view when he created man ; and, from analogy, we may 
infer his intention that the mind should be improved to 
the full extent to which he has given it ability. We may 
also infer his will, from the tokens which he has given, that 
all things were made for happiness, even in the lowest 
orders of his creation. Now, the testimony of the best and 
the greatest men, and that of our own consciousness, prove 
to us that our highest happiness consists in the growth of our 
whole inward being, mind as well as heart. Without this, 
immortality would be a burden ; for, if the mind could 
reach the necessary summit of attainment here, what happi- 
ness could heaven give ? — what but satiety ? There could 
be nothing new to a soul unwilling or unable to know 
more. But we do not believe there was ever a human being 



134 DUTY OF INTELLECTUAL CULTURE. 

who was, in his inmost heart, truly satisfied with his pre- 
sent attainments ; for, as consciousness continually presents 
the capability of higher improvement, the soul can never be 
entirely satisfied or perfectly happy until every power is 
fully developed. Intellectual improvement is, then, the 
law of our nature, and therefore the law of God. 

Had there been no revelation, we should have been 
bound, by the strongest commands of self-interest, to obey 
this law. But revelation also commands it. In the words 
of Jesus, we are bidden to " be perfect as God is per- 
fect ; " and God is not only all-good, but all-wise. And 
we are warned, in the parable of the talents, how those will 
be punished who neglect their powers. The whole ten- 
dency and spirit of the gospel imply the duty of doing good 
to others. 

Now, no man's influence is perfect without a cultivated 
mind, even were it possible for him to cultivate truly his 
heart, and not his intellect. We often set aside the judg- 
ments of those who are kind and benevolent in their feel- 
ings, but possess little mental force or culture. Not that 
a good heart is to be despised, but that little confidence 
can be reposed in a weak head. Those are not the true 
children of light who suffer half of the light that God has 
placed within them to be darkened by neglect, and who 
voluntarily walk in ignorance for want of any earnest effort 
for improvement. This the world knows ; and this, we 
believe, is half the reason that mere goodness, unsupported 
by intellect, has not had more influence. The intellect 
is really as closely connected with the heart as rays of light 
are with one another. What the intellect gives, the heart 
bestows. Neither can be perfect without the other ; and 
the so-styled heart-duties can be but half performed with 



DUTY OF INTELLECTUAL CULTURE. 135 

a neglected mind. God made the soul of every man 
in his own image ; and we believe that man to be sinning 
daily who neglects his own intellect where there is any 
opportunity for cultivation : for how can the knowledge of 
God, his will, his attributes, and the fundamental principles 
of our religion, ever be acquired without an active and 
instructed reason ? There is no root to a morality not 
founded on the beliefs of reason ; but, like the house built 
on the sand, when the winds of infidelity blow upon the 
heart, it is at once overthrown. A religion of feeling alone 
reminds us of a citadel, the outworks of which are finished, 
but the stronghold itself remains unbuilt. If, then, we 
would fulfil the will of God, as declared in revelation, 
we must improve the intellect ; we must rely on it to point 
out to us the duties which the heart will perform, if true 
to its own functions. 

Thirdly, this is especially enjoined upon us as Christian 
teachers. We may well tremble, when we consider the 
greatness of our work, in seeking to teach the word of God 
to immortal beings, — lessons which may result in their 
eternal good or ill. But what temerity is ours, when we 
dare to declare the will of Him before whom the archangels 
veil their faces, without any previous preparation, without 
a real desire to know more of His judgments whose ways 
are past finding out ! There is scarcely a lesson which may 
not be illustrated by accounts of Jewish manners and cus- 
toms, or by some reference to the Jewish polity ; not one 
in which a mind, cultivated and strengthened by reading 
and reflection, may not exert itself. The child will soon 
discover something of the mental power of the teacher ; and 
his opinions will have double weight, if supported by a sound 
mind as well as dictated by a true heart. The child forms 



136 DUTY OF INTF.IJ-F.CTUAL CULTURE. 

his Opinions as men do, only with less knowledge ; and, 
if the teacher would exert a lasting influence, he must 
cultivate all his powers. This must be done by read- 
ing and reflection. But some will say, " We have no time." 
Is this true ? Has it been duly considered, that a single 
loss which the intellect sustains through idleness cannot be 
regained, even in all eternity ? — that it will remain for ever 
a loss ? Are there those among us who read no novels, no 
gossiping newspapers, who spend no idle time, and are 
not idly busy, but, like the poor shepherd of Salisbury 
Plain, read their single text of Scripture, and hurry to 
their laborious task ? If there are, all have the sabbath 
hours in which they can devote some time to a true 
culture. And we do not believe there are any who have 
no time to reflect. A quiet observation of the inward 
life, a scrutinizing watchfulness over every thought and 
action, will strengthen the mind no less than the 
mere perusal of books. Still, we do not consider a man 
who has no knowledge of books as best able to fulfil 
the duties of a teacher. Yet if there are those whose 
motives are pure and upright, and whose powers are deve- 
loped according to the best of their ability, we would 
welcome such as teachers, — those who can speak from 
experience, — not doubting that such characters will have 
their true weight. 

Finally, we would entreat teachers — as moral beings, 
desirous of true happiness, eager to know more of God's 
goodness and wisdom, anxious to exert the best and great- 
est influence, and so to fulfil the will of God — to culti- 
vate the intellect as well as the heart ; to give to neither a 
subordinate place, but to sufler them to walk hand in hand, 
twins in improvement. 



137 



THE PATRIARCHS. 



How lived the patriarchs ? The question is an eminently 
suggestive one. Critical acumen may question the accuracy, 
in detail, of the Mosaic account of the creation of the world, 
— may find much repetition and confusion in the first chap- 
ters of Genesis : hut we cannot doubt the general truth of 
the statements, as the Hebrew accounts form a centre around 
which the fables of all other nations naturally group them- 
selves ; and there is a freshness, a simplicity, about tlie patri- 
archal story, which is internal evidence of its truth. We 
have only a few touches of the picture ; but they are so bold, 
so striking, so characteristic, that we dare not doubt the 
reality of a life sucli as the world has never since seen. The 
classics, Theocritus and Virgil, describe the shepherds as silly 
swains, innocent as their flocks, and not much wiser, — men 
merely of a class. But nowhere do we find the individuality, 
the goodness, and the dignity of Abraham. If we may so 
speak, there has always appeared to us a primeval grandeur 
in Abraham. With his princely train of three hundred armed 
men and upward, he rushes to the defence of Lot; and, with 
more than princely dignity, he scorns the reward of the 
King of Salem. Barrow, in speaking of his generosity to 
Lot, and his large hospitality, calls him " that fine old 
gentleman, Abraham." Who, indeed, had such guests as 

18 



138 THE FATRiARCHS. 

lie ? for he sat at meat with angels. With a tearful inte- 
rest, we read over and over again the trial of his faith in 
the sacrifice of Isaac, — the controlled anguish of the father's 
reply to the simple questions of his son ; and we feel that 
there was a typical reference to the last, greatest sacrifice. 
Abraham had troubles in his own household ; for he seems 
to have yielded very unwillingly to Sarah's well-founded 
jealousy of Hagar. At length, as calmly as he had obeyed 
the commands of the Deity in the sacrifice of Isaac, so 
patiently he saw the bond-servant and his son depart. 

But we desire to treat the subject in a more orderly man- 
ner. The first thing that strikes us in the lives of the patri- 
archs is their longevity. Many learned men have presumed 
some inaccuracy in the number of patriarchal years, while 
others have supposed the solar only lunar years. But we 
see no good reason for not receiving the Hebrew text as 
correct. Before the Deluge, there were probably no nox- 
ious gases rising from the earth, while the climate was more 
equable and healthy than at present ; and some provision 
was necessary for a greater increase of population than after- 
ward. More than all this, we are ignorant how much we 
owe to the hereditary wisdom of those around us ; in learn- 
ing, for instance, the laws of gravitation and of the elements. 
The patriarchs liad no alphabet, no traditionary wisdom ; 
and, if it took twenty years to learn the lore of the Druids, 
how much longer must it have taken the antediluvians to 
acquire the daily experience of life ! Before the Flood, 
Methuselah arrived at the greatest age of upwards of nine 
hundred years; but after the Deluge, when there were three 
couples to repeople the earth, none of the patriarchs, except 
Shorn, reached the age of five hundred. In the second cen- 
tury after the Deluge, none attained two hundred and forty 



THE 1»ATRIARCHS. 139 

years ; and, in the third century, Terah alone arrived at two 
hundred. It is probable that there were the same relative 
proportions as now between the periods of childhood, man- 
hood, and old age. Some have fixed the time of maturity 
at one hundred years. The only thing by which we can 
exactly measure these periods is the time of marriage, and 
the birth of the oldest son. Marriages in the East always 
take place at an early age : but most of the patriarchs were 
not married until after fifty, as the parents were nearly a 
hundred before the first child was born ; and Abraham, 
the wisest of the patriarchs, thought it not unwise to 
marry a second wife at the ripe age of one hundred and 
forty. 

What old men there were in those days, when not more 
than three generations filled the space between the Creation 
and the Flood ! We have fancied Methuselah and his com- 
peers interchanging pleasantry and telling stories over a 
pan of coals in the cool autumn evenings, — such stories as 
have never been heard since ; and the mysterious Adam 
talking, in awful sorrow, of the past, — Adam, the only 
man, save one, who ever stood up in innocence before God ; 
and Enoch, the youthful saint, — of whom even then it 
might be said, " Whom the gods love die young," — walk- 
ing, in spiritual beauty, with the older patriarchs. 

The patriarchs lived thus long ; but how lived they ? 
The first men were civilized men ; for, although Nimrod 
was a hunter, he was not a savage. The antediluvians 
were at first a pastoral people, but not nomadic ; for Jabal 
introduced living in tents. In the large, lovely plains, and 
deep, shady valleys of Syria, they found abundant food for 
their flocks, and plentiful springs of water. The earliest 
dwellings were probably huts ; that is, small houses made 



140 



THE PATRIARCHS. 



of the branches of trees, intertwined, and often plastered 
with mud. Such houses Jacob built to shelter his cattle 
during the first winter of his return from Mesopotamia. 
Such houses Cain probably built, when he gathered his 
relations together in cities. 

Architecture, as an art applied to the building of private 
residences, is of comparatively late cultivation. Indeed, the 
Romans are the only ancient people who were at all remark- 
able for the elegance and extent of their houses. Eastern 
nations have scarcely changed or improved their houses for 
centuries. Stone was early used by the Jews, and some rare 
woods; but wood was not common. It appears, therefore, 
that the houses of patriarclial times must have been of the 
most primitive character, — mere huts, in fact. Bricks were 
soon manufactured, as we learn by the building of the Tower 
of Babel. These were made of straw and clay, dried in the 
sun. The ancients did not understand the modern process 
of baking brick, — an art which was first taught in France. 
By the Roman law, no building could be built of brick 
which had not been dried five years. 

Tents were early used, even before the patriarchs led a 
wandering life ; for they were of easy construction, being 
made of skins, or of goats' hair woven by the women. These 
were probably such as we see now in Arabia, eight or ten 
feet high, raised on ten or twenty poles. In Arabia, the 
women's apartment is separated by a curtain from the 
men's : but we read that Sarah had a tent of her own ; 
and that Leah and Rachel had separate tents, as well as 
the maid-servants. It is still the custom in the East, as it 
probably was then, for the patriarch or sheik to pitch his 
tent, at night, on some good piece of ground, and group the 
others round him ; making, in fact, a little encampment. 



THE PATRIARCHS. 141 

The furniture was of the simplest character, — earthen 
pitchers to draw water, a few utensils for cooking, mats to 
sleep on, and chests for the camels' furniture and the dress 
of the men and women. 

Dress always forms a large portion of the property of 
Eastern nations, where the fashions never change. For thou- 
sands of years, the Arab has probably worn the same kind 
of shirt and cloak, handkerchief for the head, and an addi- 
tional square shawl. In towns, a pair of drawers and a shirt 
formed, and still form, tlie only covering. In Exodus, we 
read that the cloak of the poor was made of wool, and that 
this cloak constituted the day and night dress. Rebekah had 
rings of gold for her nose, and bracelets ; and we know that 
Rachel had rings for her ears. Rebekah and her descend- 
ants wore also a veil, which was perhaps only the folds of 
their outer garment drawn over their face. Images, or 
household gods, were part of the tent furniture, as appears 
from Laban's and Jacob's history. The women cooked, — 
for instance, Sarah cooked the bread for the angels, — and 
fed the camels, as we learn in the case of Rebekah. They 
also, probably, spun and wove. But they must have always 
held an inferior position, as Lamech early introduced poly- 
gamy, and Abraham concubinage. 

It appears that Abraham and his son Isaac sent wedding 
presents to Rebekah. Feasts were common, as we read 
of that given by Laban on Rachel's marriage ; and Rebe- 
kah's friends entreated that she might stay with them ten 
days, probably for gayety, before they departed. The 
father thus obtained the bride for the son. What the wed- 
ding ceremony was, we do not learn. The rabbins say the 
first ceremony consisted of a kiss ; but it seems, from the 
history of Rebekah, that, after the consent of the bride's 



142 THE PATRIAU( US. 

father and brothers was obtained, she received a blessing, — 
the only form of marriage described. 

If Sarah was Abraham's niece, as some assert, she was 
related to him within the forbidden degrees. Such mar- 
riages were, however, early prohibited ; and marriages of 
blood-relations ceased to be customary even after the long 
bondage in Egypt, where they were more common than 
among any other people. It is singular that the Jews 
carried away with them so few of the Egyptian customs ; 
but, from the first, they were a separate people. 

Commonly there was but one wife; but Jacob married 
two. Their father, however, insisted that Jacob should 
marry no more. The eldest sister was married first, and 
the wife had always precedence. The concubines and wife 
lived together : but in time of danger, as in the meeting of 
Esau and Jacob, the beloved wife was placed in safety ; 
while, at her death, the wife alone shared the tomb of her 
lord. 

The eldest son had the inheritance ; as Abraham gave 
Isaac all that he had, and sent away the concubines and 
their sons with a present. This was given with a blessing ; 
and the blessing of the father, however obtained, had a 
divine power. The son and his family made a part of the 
patriarch's household. Over these he exercised an unli- 
mited authority ; being amenable to no one if he took the 
life of his son, or if, as in the case of Ishmael, he sent him 
away to die. From this patriarchal power arose the cruel 
patria potestas of the Romans, by which the son was 
nothing more than the slave of the father. 

The patriarch's household must have been extremely large, 
as Abraham could arm more than three hundred servants. 
They comprised all kinds of household servants (Rebekah's 



THE FAIR I ARC lis. 143 

nurse being spoken of as an important personage), and all 
kinds of artificers. So large a family required, of course, 
a great variety of labor. There were the nurses ; those who 
cooked the bread, and the lentils that Esau loved ; those 
who cared for the milk and butter which Abraham set before 
the angels ; those who broiled or baked the venison of the 
hunters, and fermented the wine. There were those who 
made the jewels of silver and gold, and the raiment, the 
household furniture and the tents, and the arrows for 
the hunters ; and the earliest accounts mention the workers 
in brass and iron, and the makers of musical instru- 
ments. 

The money which Abraham used instead of barter, as 
a medium of exchange, however rude, was a proof of an 
advanced civilization. A trifling remark sometimes betrays 
the cultivation of- this early age, as Abraham's telling 
Melchizedek that he will not take so much as a thread or 
shoe-latchet of his goods. The manner in which nations 
care for their dead is always a proof of their progress in 
refinement and morality ; and therefore we highly prize the 
curious account of Abraham's purchase of the buryino-. 
ground of Machpelah. Once again we read of a moneye'd 
purchase of Jacob, — his buying the land for the altar El- 
Elohe-Israel. Besides his possessions in tents and house- 
hold goods, and in maid and men-servants, the patriarch 
owned cattle, sheep, asses, and camels. 

The number of camels shows the extent of trade in the 
East, just as ships show the commerce of modern nations. 
Camels came from the highlands of Asia, and were there- 
fore not the earliest or an early method of transportation. 
From their being reckoned last in the list of Abraham's 
flocks, on his return from Egypt, we may presume that they 



144 THE PATRIARCHS. 

were not as numerous as his cattle. Afterwards, they ra- 
pidly increased ; and, in Jacob's day, they carried spicery, 
balm, and myrrh down to Egypt. The extent of the patri- 
archal flocks may be imagined from the magnificent present 
which Jacob offered his brother Esau,— two hundred goats, 
two hundred ewes, and a flock of cattle and camels. There 
was every inducement to commerce in the abundant natural 
productions of the East. 

In Jacob's day, the soil brought forth a hundred-fold 
for the cultivation. Mention is made of gopher-wood, 
oak, poplar, hazel, and chestnut. Besides the domestic 
animals, we read of pigeons and doves, wolves, hinds, and 
lions. Everywhere there were bountiful springs of water, 
the warmest nooks for shelter in winter, and the coolest 
retreats from the summer heat. 

The East is the seat of populous nations and great cities. 
Here were Tyre and Sidon, Babylon and Nineveh, close by 
the home of the patriarchs ; and no country presented finer 
sites for cities than Syria. There is not a king in Europe 
who has so beautifully situated a residence as had the King 
of Salem. The rapid growth of Sodom and Gomorrah, and 
the enhanced wickedness of the people, are a proof of the 
perhaps unseasonable increase of the population. 

We have thus cursorily gone over the prominent points 
of information in the lives of the patriarchs. It is a subject 
on which we love to dwell ; for nowhere do we read, in so 
short a space, such noble, charming biographies. What a 
touching story, as we have before remarked, is that of 
Abraham's trial of faith ! and how sorrowfully do we read 
of the jealousy of Sarah, and Hagar's anguish ! What an 
exquisite picture of primeval courtship is that of Rebekah ! 
and what imagery, what an outflowing of inspiration, in 



THE PATRIARCHS. 145 

Jacob's blessing of his sons ! Unity of character is always 
maintained. Abraham is always the same good, noble 
prmce ; Jacob, the shrewd, persevering man of the world. 
There was an abundance of the wonderful in those days. 
Then Abraham feasted with angels, and Jacob met angels. 
Well may we ask what manner of men they were. 

We are persuaded that the Old Testament is too little 
read at the present day. Our heroic Puritan fathers made 
it their constant study. Christ himself came for the fulfil- 
ment of the law, as revealed in the word, and in the lives 
of the patriarchs and prophets. With heartfelt gratitude, 
we confess that God has never wanted a witness among 
men. And once more we would entreat parents and 
teachers to make use of every means to interest the young 
in the study of religion, — means so largely offered them in 
the Jewish Scriptures; and to obtain fresh strength for 
themselves in the wells of inspiration which gush forth in 
the Old Testament, no less than in the New. 



19 



146 



FAIRIES.* 



When the altars of the Olympian deities were deserted, and 
their worship despised, the dryads and hamadryads, the 
nereids and lesser gods, still kept their throne in men's 
hearts ; and in the North, under the names of fairies and 
elves, long victoriously disputed the reign of reason. Some 
say, the word " elf" is derived from a word signifying " to 
leap," and was descriptive of the lightness of this airy peo- 
ple. The Saxons had not only dun-elfin, berg-elfin, and 
mantrclfin, — spirits of the downs, hills, and mountains, — 
but also feld-elfin, woden-elfin, sea-elfin, and water-elfin ; 
spirits of the fields, woods, seas, and waters. The fairies 
in England have a mixed character, partaking somewhat of 
the qualities of the dwergas of Scandinavia, the peris 
of Persia, and the sylvan deities of classic mythology. 
They seem to be divided into classes, and have their King 
Oberon, and Queens Titania and Mab, with their attendants 
and guards of honor. Chaucer says, — 

" In olde days of King Artour, 
Of which that Bretons spoken great honour, 
All was this land fulfilled of farie : 
The Elfquene, with her joly companie, 
Danced ful oft in many a grene mede." 

* This article formed the introduction to the translation of a fairy tale by Tieck, 
entitled " The Elves." 



FAIRIES. 147 

Their dwelling was in " a curious park, paled round with 
tooth-picks ; a house made all with mother-of-pearl, an ivory- 
tennis-court, a nutmeg parlor, a sapphire dairy-room, a gin- 
ger hall, chambers of agate, kitchens all of crystal ; the 
jacks being gold, the spits of Spanish needles." Ants, flies' 
eggs, fleas' thighs in collops, butterflies' brains dissolved in 
dew, with glow-worms' hearts and sucking mites, formed 
their food. They were especially fond of dancing in the 
moonbeams ; and Darwin says, — 

" Here, seen of old, the elfin race 
With sprightly vigils marked the place : 
Their gay processions charmed the sight, 
Gilding the lucid noon of night." 

And Shakspeare declares that they assembled 

" On hill, in dale, forest, or mead, 
By pav^d fountain or by rushy brook, 
Or on the beached margent of the sea. 
To dance their ringlets to the whistling wind." 

In their dances they left behind them traces, which were of 
circular shape, were known by the name of fairy rings, and 
were considered as charmed spots. These little circles 
of dew are, every summer's morning, seen in the grass 
(we believe no one has satisfactorily accounted for them) ; 
and none were found hardy enough to step within them, as, 
by so doing, they fell into the power of the fairies. Tieck 
alludes in his story to this belief. The maidens, when 
gathering May dew as a cosmetic, always left what they saw 
in the fairy rings, lest the spirits should, out of revenge for 
their stealing it, spoil their beauty. 

At the trial of Joan of Arc, the doctors of Paris asked her 
whether she had ever assisted at the assemblies held at the 
Fountain of the Fairies, near Domremy, round which 



148 FAIRIES. 

the elves were accustomed to dance ; and the Maid of 
Orleans confessed that she had often repaired to a beautiful 
fountain in Lorraine, which she named the " Good Foun- 
tain of the Fairies of our Lord." How she escaped from 
their influence, we do not learn. Being asked if she had 
ever seen any fairies, she answered, " No ; " but said that 
one of her godmothers had seen one under a fairy-tree, near 
the village of Domremy. Southey, in his poem of "Joan of 
Arc," speaks of a goodly oak, near this Fountain of the 
Fairies, on whose leaves the elves loved to lie and rock, and 
bask in the moonshine. 

" Here the woodman leads 
His boy, and showing him the green-sward marked 
With darker circlets, says their midnight dance 
Hath traced the rings, and bids him spare the tree." 

These fairies of the higher order had every variety of 
dress that fancy could fashion for them. Some wore gar- 
ments of leaf gold ; and others, cloaks, of a thousand min- 
gled dyes, made of the wings of butterflies. Shelley, speak- 
ing of Queen Mab, says that 

" Yon fibrous cloud, 
That catches but the palest tinge of even. 
And which the straining eye can hardly seize 
When melting into eastern twilight's shadow. 
Were scarce so thin, so slight." 

But there were other classes of fairies who knew nothing 
of dancing in the moonshine, but embraced the comfortable 
life of farmers. Gervaise of Tilbury, describing them, says, 
" When on account of domestic work they are sitting up at 
night, when the doors are shut, they warm themselves at 
the fire, and take little frogs out of their bosoms, roast them 
on the coals, and eat them. They have tbc countenances 
of old men, with wrinkled cheeks ; and they are of small 



FAIRIES. 



149 



stature, not being quite an inch high. They wear little 
patched coats ; and if any thing is to be carried in the house, 
or any laborious work to be done, they lend a hand, and 
finish it sooner than any man could. It is their nature 
to do good, and not to injure. They have, however, one 
little mode of annoying: when, in the uncertain shades 
of night, the English are riding alone, the fairy some- 
times invisibly joins the horseman ; and, when he has 
accompanied him a good while, he at last takes the reins, 
and leads him into a neighboring slough ; and, when the 
animal is fixed and floundering in the mire, off goes the 
fairy with a laugh." 

Shakspeare's Puck is one of the mischief-loving sprights, 
who, although nothing of a farmer, leads the poor lovers up 
and down ; hopping as light as a bird from a brier. Puck, or 
Robin Goodfellow, is the best known among the fairies ; and 
everybody is familiar with Shakspeare's description of him. 
An old writer says, that " if the bowle of curds and creame 
was not duly set for Robin Goodfellow the friar, and Sisse 
the dairymaid, why, then, either the pottage was burnt in the 
pot, or the cheeses would not curdle next day, or the butter 
would not come, or the ale in the vat would not have good 
head." And another writes, " Indeed, your grandam's 
maids were wont to set a bowl of milk before Incubus, and 
his cousin Robin Goodfellow, for grinding of malt and mus- 
tard, and sweeping the house at midnight : and you have 
also heard that he would chafe exceedingly if the maid or 
goodwife of the house, having compassion on his nakedness, 
laid any clothes for him beside his mess of white bread and 
milk which was his standing due ; for, in that case, he saith, 
' What have we here ? Hemten, Hemten ! here will I never ^ 
more tread nor stampen.' " Every one is familiar with 



150 



FAIRIES. 



Queen Mab, who plaits the manes of horses in the night, 
whom Ben Jonson describes : — 

" This is Mab, the mistress fairy, 
That does nightly rob the dairy ; 
And can hurt or help the churning. 
If she please, without discerning; 
She that pinches country wenches, 
If they rub not clean their benches, 
And with sharper nail remembers 
When they rake not up their embers. 
This is she that empties cradles. 
Takes out children, puts in ladles. 
She can start our frankUns' daughters. 
In their sleep, with shouts and laughters ; 
And, in sweet St. Anna's night. 
Feed them with the promised sight — 
Some of husbands, some of lovers, 
Which an empty dream discovers." 

This is Mab, the queen of midnight revels. Shelley makes 
her a very wise fairy ; but he does not follow the old le- 
gends : while the fair and gentle Titania sleeps on the 

" Bank where the wild thyme blows, 
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows," 

and reigns over 

" Spirits of another sort. 
Who have oft with the morning's love made sport." 

Of such beautiful natures are those that dwell in the air, — 
the delicate Ariels that come and go with the south wind. 

Besides these fairies of the earth and air, there was an- 
other species supposed to live in mines, where they were 
often heard to imitate the actions of workmen ; and they 
had great skill in working and forging metals. Tieck 
speaks of these, as well as of those who live in the fire, 
— spirits of flame, with bodies like burning red crystal. 
The fairies of Shakspeare, and of most early writers, 
were the spirits of common tradition ; a diminutive race, 



FAIRIES. 



151 



endowed with immortality and supernatural gifts, yet with 
no very great power over mortals ; rather annoying than 
injuring them, and, for the most part, inclined to do them 
service. But Spenser makes them a race of mortals, created 
by Prometheus, of human size, shape, and affections, and 
subject to death. In so doing, he has not followed popular 
tradition ; and his account of them wants all the sweetness, 
grace, and sprightliness of the common fable. 

But, besides their other powers and habits, there was one 
exceedingly interesting to mortals. There was a prevalent 
belief in olden time, that the fairies stole or exchanged chil- 
dren. Ben Jonson speaks of Mab's emptying cradles ; and 
Shakspeare makes Henry IV. wish it could be proved, — 

" That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged, 
In cradle-clothes," Hotspur for Harry. 

And another writer says, — 

" These, when a child hap to be got, 
And after prove an idiot, 
When folk perceive it thriveth not, 

The fault therein to smother. 
Some silly, dealing, brainless calf, 
That understands things by the half. 
Says that the fairy left this aulf. 

And took away the other." 

Some of these traditions were simpler reproductions of 
the old fable of the stolen Ganymede. Nor was it strange, 
in the early ages of the world, that the hunter lost in the 
primeval forests, whose extent he could not even guess, 
should, bewildered by fear, imagine himself led away by 
some invisible being ; for, if one of our readers has ever 
been lost, he well knows how unreal the most familiar 
objects may seem, and how easily fear makes the most 
simple thing vague and mysterious. And, again, it was no 



152 FAIRIES. 

more strange, when communication between different coun- 
tries, and parts of the same country, was difficult and rare, 
that the captive stolen by the sudden irruption of some bold 
marauders should, in a little while, seem to his friends to 
have been ravished from them by beings gifted with super- 
natural power. A superstitious belief in the power of the 
fairies to carry mortals away was retained in England until 
a very recent period. Bourne tells us, that, in the begin- 
ning of the last century, people would affirm there were 
some still living whom the fairies had carried away, and 
kept with them seven years ; and Mr. Keightly says that 
he had conversed with a girl in Norfolk, England, who had 
seen fairies, — a superstitious belief not more strange, and 
much more agreeable, than that in witches, which lingers 
even among us. 

Indeed, it is not very long ago that the flint arrow-heads, 
found in fossil in Scotland and America, were believed to 
be shot by the fairies ; and from thence came their common 
name of elfin-arrows : while certain conical stones, called 
fairy-loaves, were kept religiously in houses, that the house 
might never want bread. 

But to return to the fairies' thieving propensities. Some- 
times they restored the children they had stolen ; and the 
common people had no less terror, though more reverence, 
for them than they had for the gypsies. Even in the pre- 
sent century, when the fairies are almost forgotten, there 
still lingers the belief that children have been sometimes 
carried off by invisible powers. Nay, older people did not 
escape them ; for we have all read with delight the legend 
of Sleepy Hollow. The Ettrick Shepherd founds his beautiful 
ballad of "Kilmeny" upon this belief, — a liallad so beau- 
tiful, that we wish every one had it by heart, as the expres- 



FAIRIES. 153 

sive saying is. To prove this, he tells some popular stories 
prevalent in Scotland ; and one of them we will venture 
to relate. There was a man in the parish of Traquair and 
county of Peebles, who was busied one day carting turf in a 
large open field opposite the mansion-house. His daughter, 
a child of seven years, was playing beside him, and amusing 
him with her prattle. Chancing to ask a question of her, 
he was surprised at receiving no answer ; and, looking 
behind him, he perceived that his child was not there. He 
always averred, that, as far as he could remember, she had 
been talking to him not half a minute before : he was cer- 
certain it was not a whole minute. He went home in a 
state of mind that can rather be conceived than expressed, 
and raised the people of the parish, who searched for her 
several days with no success. The father, however, was 
thoroughly persuaded that she was carried off by some 
invisible being. As a last resource, he applied to the mini- 
ster of Inverlethen, who enjoined him to cause prayers to be 
offered to God for her in seven Christian churches on the 
next sabbath, at the same instant of time. The injunction 
was religiously attended to ; and, as the old divine foreboded, 
so it fell out. On that very day, and within an hour of the 
time on which the prayers were offered, the girl was found in 
the Flora wood, sitting, and picking the bark of a tree. She 
could give no account of what had befallen her ; but said 
her mother came and fed her by day, and sang her to sleep 
at night. As the ballad beautifully expresses the story, — 

" Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, 
When the fringe was red on the westen hill, 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. 
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain 
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane ; 
When the Lugle glowed with an eiry leme, 
Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame." 
20 



154 FAIRIES. 

But no one now believes in the fairies, with their mali- 
cious or good propensities ; none think they hide all day in 
acorn-cups, or bask in the sun on the south side of moun- 
tains ; nor does the belated peasant see or fancy them 
revelling under the greenwood-trees, or by the side of spark- 
ling fountains. The mother, without fear, leaves her child 
in its cradle ; and the maid, with impunity, neglects to 
clean her benches. 

" Nought is heard 
Now in the leafy world but earthly strains ; 
Voices, yet sweet, of bird and brook and waterfall : 
The day is silent else." 

But we miss these beautiful fables. They breathed at 
least the sentiment of religion. Nature had more meaning, 
she was more studied, more reverenced, more loved, when 
men believed every corner of creation teeming with those 
happy, invisible beings, whose existence was so closely con- 
nected with their own. Men worship now a far-off Deity in 
heaven, and do not suffer his presence to fill the space left 
vacant by the household deities of the ancients. Some 
sects have endeavored to make up for this want, by inculcat- 
ing the presence of guardian spirits as an article of their 
faith ; but, while reason may doubt or reject this as a dogma 
of belief, we may still long for more spiritual views of the 
mysterious workings of nature, and half regret the harmless, 
blind affection of our fathers for the fairies. 



155 



PRESENT CONDITION OP EUROPE. 



We are often surprised at the ignorance and indifference 
manifested by the public, as to the present condition of our 
neighbors across the water, who are united to us by the ties 
of relationship and emigration, and by the daily bonds of 
commerce, and whose past history furnishes us with so 
many warning lessons of experience. While we sit idly 
criticizing the President's message, its manner and matter, 
and read the announcement that we are at peace, with over- 
flowing coffers, we forget what we seemed to remember for 
the short season of the Kossuth mania, that a whole nation, 
with millions of people, has, within the last few years, 
changed its masters, and, instead of following out its des- 
tiny under its own teachers, has found others of a different 
stock, education, and habits ; and that destruction threatens 
another once-powerful people. 

Wars, and rumors of wars, reach us, — cries of oppres- 
sion, not only from the dungeons of Hungary, but from 
Italy and France, from a wretched people hungry in body 
and mind ; but we scarcely hear them, deadened as they are 
by distance, and selfish as we are from the very luxury of 
freedom. Raised by the efforts of our ancestors above so 
many prejudices of the past, and safe from the entangling 
politics of Europe, we seem placed by Providence under the 



156 PRESENT CONDITION OF EUROPE. 

most favorable auspices for trying anew the problem of self- 
government, so often tried by other nations in vain. We 
can scarcely comprehend the blessings of peace alone. In 
Europe, nations different in language, habits, and character, 
are separated by petty streams or the imaginary boundaries 
of treaties ; and therefore perpetual contests arise, and 
hereditary wars establish abuses which the art and wisdom 
of politicians and philanthropists would conquer in vain. 
But we are one people, having the same language, educa- 
tion, and hopes. We are born of the same stock, and family 
pride alone should keep us united. We think it good, 
therefore, sometimes to compare, in a spirit of just pride 
and aspiration, our own condition with that of the countries 
of Europe. 

England, our beloved mother country, — who taught our 
childhood a love of liberty, tempered by a wise moderation, 
and infused her genius, philanthropy, and desire for pro- 
gress, — is burdened by a monstrous debt, by an aristocracy 
whose handmaids are monopoly and protection, and by here- 
ditary oppressions whose shadow chills the heart of the 
strongest. In a country where law is best loved and ad- 
ministered, we know from a recent English publication how 
suits drag along from court to court ; how hope nourishes 
despair, and is satisfied only with the life of the victim. 
We know what immense power a Duke of Sutherland has, 
who can change the destiny of a million of acres, and drive 
off the tenantry ; while the horrid misery and degradation 
of the manufacturing classes seem to defy remedy. Not 
to mention other fearful evils flourishing in our old home, 
a starving nation has told us to what extent wretchedness 
may be carried, when oppression and indolence go hand in 
hand. 



PRESENT CONDITION OF EUROPE. 157 

Across the channel, France has indeed shaken off the 
fetters of feudal tyranny ; but, like a prisoner too long in 
chains, she shivers in the bracing air of freedom, and pines 
for her old dungeons. An emperor is chosen by forced 
votes, and tries to revive the old fancies of despotism in 
the forests of Fontainebleau. There are no constitutional 
checks, no quiet, free, municipal elections. The emperor 
distrusts the people ; and the people are by turns frightened 
and cajoled, to rise, at length, in an anarchy worse than 
absolute despotism. Travellers tell us of their wonder- 
ful police, never sleeping, always watching ; and it shows 
the condition of the people who need so to be watched, and 
of the emperor who needs so to watch. 

Across the*Pyrenees is Spain, which has sunk from a first 
to a fifth rate power ; her queen without principle, her 
nobles without influence, and her people too degraded to 
care for their degradation. It is a good proof of the fallen 
condition of Spain, that we have so few books of travel writ- 
ten of one of the finest, most varied countries in the world ; 
that such rare treasures of literature and art lie buried in 
her libraries and palaces ; and that she submits to have a 
foreign Protestant power quietly sitting in her dominions 
in the most impregnable fortress in the world. 

Portugal, just beyond Torres Vedras, the scene of Wel- 
lington's stand for the ancient constitution, must now 
suffer from a youthful king, as she has long languished 
from the other oppressions of her sister country. If Spain 
were sufficiently powerful, we might hope for a re-union of 
the two countries. 

Italy, once the imperial mistress of the nations, and, later 
still, endowed with a spiritual power more dangerous and 
far-reaching than that of the sword ; the gem of the 



158 rRESEN'J' CONDITION OF EUROPE. 

world, — has been divided for centuries into petty states, 
eacli a little despotism continually quarrelling with all the 
rest; and often, as if she had not woes enough of her own, 
she has furnished the battle-ground for French, kSpanish, 
and German rivals. With a population of not more than 
twenty-one millions, Austria governs in the north, Spain 
in the south, the Church in the middle portion ; and she is 
split up into other duchies and nominal republics under 
foreign influence. The republic of San Marino, for in- 
stance, has about eight thousand inhal)itants. All these 
various states are burdened with debt, and oppressed 
with soldiers. The worst scenes of the dark ages are con- 
stantly re-enacted. We hear every year of new insurrec- 
tions raised by her patriots for liberty. But what can be 
ho})ed from an ignorant, vicious populace, who follow any 
hue and cry, and from states so divided by ancient feuds, 
that the idea of union seems almost opposed to nature ? 
Even in art she has lost her dominion, as all the great mu- 
sicians, sculptors, and painters of this ago are of Northern 
birth. The only modern school of painting is of the North. 

Switzerland, with its twenty-two democratic and aristo- 
cratic cantons, and its divisions in religion, modestly waits 
on the will of the other powers of Europe, who surge around 
her rocky home, and maintains her neutrality from fear of 
internal strife. But what union can there be in such diverse 
interests ? How can the people be truly well governed ? 
How little can they, in their situation, be trusted to govern 
themselves ! Poverty alone saves them from the vices of 
their neighbors. 

Sweden and Norway — with not more than five million 
inhabitants ; with a tolerably good government, which is 
constitutional, and for which they have to thank, in a great 



PRESEJNT COJSiDITION OF EUROPE, 159 

measure, the reforming hand of Napoleon — stand in suita- 
ble awe of their puissant neighbor Russia, who has already 
despoiled them of Finland, portions of Lapland, and other 
possessions. Belgium, Holland, and Denmark are all ani- 
mated by the same spirit. Few just notions of liberty 
prevail. 

Denmark, within the last few years, had the same contest 
with the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein which Austria 
had with Hungary, — the same vain effort for national exist- 
ence, not for the liberty of the people. 

But what shall we say of Germany, — free-thinking, bold- 
thinking Germany ? Alas ! she has as sad a fate as the rest 
of Europe. About a thousand years ago, Otho established 
the imperial government of Germany, the different princes 
choosing an emperor from among their number. He could 
hold, as emperor, no fiefs, but received certain contingents 
of men and money from each state, and was a sort of gene- 
ralissimo ; but as he had no power of asserting his rights, 
except what he had as prince of his own domain, that dig- 
nity soon became nugatory. It became, however, heredi- 
tary with the house of Austria ; and the Emperor of Austria 
was thrice crowned, — once in Germany, once in the Aus- 
trian dominions in Italy, and once at Rome as the defender 
of the faith. In 1815, Francis II. gladly gave up this power 
to a diet composed of the German princes, which holds it to 
this day. In this diet there are sixty-nine votes, each prin- 
cipality having one or more votes according to a fixed ratio ; 
and Austria, having four votes, is president of the assembly. 
They have a certain constitution, by which they decide on 
peace and war, on the quotas of men and money for the dif- 
ferent states, and various other internal and external 
arrangements. But even here, as in earlier times, the 



160 PRESENT CONDITION OF EUROPE. 

strongest rules ; and Austria and Prussia make war as they 
choose. State rights are utterly disregarded. Not one of 
these separate states can boast even of having a constitu- 
tional monarchy, — except, perhaps, Hanover, whose brutal 
old king, Ernest, not forgetting his English education, gave 
his people a constitution in 1848. 

Prussia, whose power dates back not more than a hun- 
dred and fifty years, has, by wars and aggressions of various 
kinds, made herself a powerful despotism in spite of her 
neighbors. The King of Prussia alone has an army of more 
than a million of men constantly on pay, who neither vote 
nor pay taxes, but owe allegiance 'to him. Nowhere in 
Germany have they any idea of our municipal elections, 
which are the very nurseries of freedom. We need not be 
told of the power and despotism of Austria ; for we have 
learned the sad story from her recent contest with Hungary. 
Germany, with her forty-five millions of inhabitants, has her 
Castle of Konigstein still frowning in proud contempt of 
her colleges and teachers. 

But the youthful despotism of Russia is most to be feared 
of all ; and its shadow already stretches across Europe. 
Of her population of fifty-five millions, three-fourths are 
slaves, and not one in two hundred and twenty can read 
or write ; while, in America, one in five can boast an educa- 
tion. The emperor Alexander, both more wise and more just 
than Nicholas, established schools and asylums, and longed 
for the enlightenment of his people. Once, while he was 
complaining to Madame de Stael of their condition, she said, 
" that, while he reigned, they would not feel the want of a 
constitutional monarchy." " Ah ! " replied Alexander, " I 
am, at best, only a happy accident." Already Russia has 
seized upon portions of Sweden and of Poland ; she has made 



PRESENT CONDITION OF EUROPE. 161 

daring incursions into Asia ; and she now threatens the 
very destruction of Turkey. Nature itself seems to have 
placed an immense barrier for her in the deserts which sepa- 
rate her from other nations. Vienna is not more than fifty 
miles off; and she can at any moment make a dash with 
her Cossacks into the heart of the German principalities, 
before they can concentrate their arms on her frontiers. 
The new railroad between St. Petersburg and Moscow will 
centralize her dominions ; and she will sit like the spider in 
her web, ready to pounce on the unwary victim. 

Turkey is of little importance in the list of nations ; only 
we may tremble at the increase of the Russian power by her 
destruction. She has in Europe fifteen million inhabitants, 
a large majority of whom are Christians, who have been the 
nominal cause of the present contest between Turkey and 
Russia. Her situation is unrivalled. She has quarries of 
marble, mines of alum, salt, iron, and nitre, and abounds in 
many of the fruits of the torrid and temperate zones. The 
fleece of her sheep is of especial value, and her horses are of 
an unrivalled breed ; but bad management has spoiled every 
thing. The Sultan is absolutely despotic, holding the 
property of every one of his subjects as his own, and is 
restrained only by certain traditions of the Koran, decrees 
of the Ulima and Mufti, and the fear of assassination. A 
bashaw — a subordinate governor — has the right of inflict- 
ing death at any time on one of his subjects ; while the 
Mahometan doctrines of fatalism are a worm at the very root 
of progress. Of course, such a country is as much unruled 
as misruled. She makes no use of her fine position, which 
all the great conquerors of the world have coveted, and in 
which Caesar and Napoleon both thought of establishing the 
seat of universal dominion. She has the pride of ancestry and 

21 



162 PRESENT CON'DITION OF EUROPE. 

the pride of religion to animate her against the power of 
Eussia ; but what would these avail ? And, in any event, 
what would the people gain ? If Russia conquers, one 
despotism is changed for another. But Russian principles 
are not so much opposed as the Turkish to progress ; and a 
weak or vile prince may, under the Russian better than 
under the Turkish dominion, give what the people so much 
need. As a general thing, it is better for the individuality 
of a nation to be preserved ; and, for that reason, we so 
much deprecated the absorption of Hungary by Austria. 
But here it is a choice of evils ; and certainly the greater 
portion of the sympathies of Turkey are Russian. 

Then follows Greece, the last in our list, once the light of 
the world, which is governed by a Bavarian fop, and is sure 
to fall into the hands of the despoiler. 

We have thus cursorily gone over the condition of Europe, 
with nearly three hundred millions of inhabitants. We find 
her great resources wasted or neglected, her people every- 
where vainly struggling with oppressions. Her past history 
reveals the same contest for power between the people, the 
nobles, and the central governments, which has ended so dis- 
astrously for all, with the exception, perhaps, of constitutional 
England. How nations seem to have gone back to their 
childhood, contending for their very existence ! Peace is 
always doubtful, and is maintained only from flimsy motives 
of expediency. Well may they say, in the spirit of warning, 
" The future is with us." 



3 63 



THE RESOURCES OP OUR COUNTRY. 



We have compared our own political condition with that of 
other countries, feeling as if we were set apart for a nobler 
and higher destiny ; while everywhere, under whatever 
form of government, in the Old World, the same cry of suffer- 
ing humanity is going up, and the hand of power has a 
deadening effect on the energies of men, like the winter air 
of Madrid, which, it is said, often freezes the palace-sentinel 
to death, witliout stirring the feather in his cap. Well 
assured of our own political pre-eminence, we would wish to 
speak of the positive resources of our country, — of the 
stores laid up in field, forest, mountain, and stream, for 
our use as a great and free people. If we analyze our 
pains, we find they always lessen, while our blessings 
increase with every re-enumeration ; and we think, there- 
fore, it cannot be amiss to take an account of our national 
riches, in order that we may be properly grateful and 
wise for the future. 

Our remarks will be principally confined to North America, 
as South America is but partially civilized, and her colonists 
brought with them the hereditary taint of indolence and 
ignorance, bad laws and bad institutions. Little attention has 
been paid to her agricultural resources ; and her geological 
surveys have been chiefly directed to searching for mines of 



164 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

gold and silver, "which, alone, add little to the wealth 
of the people. Our scanty statistics can give ns no just 
idea of the importance of those countries. On the con- 
trary, the northern half of the continent was settled by 
hardy and enterprising bands of adventurers, who have 
wielded the weapons nature gave them with the arm of 
a youthful giant. They have been indefatigable in botanical 
and geological surveys, and can give now a tolerable inven- 
tory of their treasures. 

We have taken pleasure in sometimes comparing the form 
of the New and of the Old World, and have seen a narrow 
isthmus in each connecting two continents, and every 
headland running to the south with the exception of 
two, — Yucatan and Jutland, — one in each. But here 
the comparison fails, as the western shores of Europe 
and America wholly differ ; the one being deeply indented 
with bays and inlets, and the other having only the impor- 
tant Gulf of California on its generally smooth border. Our 
long line of coast affords every facility for commerce. We 
of the United States can have no dread of the foreign powers 
who guard the Gulf like sleepy sentinels ; and only a mode- 
rate fear of Britain, who from the Bermudas, her watch- 
tower on the deep, looks with an eye askance at all our 
movements. The other nations of North America are 
equally well situated. 

The mountains of a country are of course the first and 
the most attractive feature in its physical geography, as they 
enrich the soil, soften the temperature, and are the nurseries 
of the rivers which fertilize the country, render its resources 
available, and unite and civilize its people. Mountains are of 
especial use in moderating the temperature. We have seen 
tables which were kept of the amount of rain falling in the 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 165 

high country and the lowlands of England ; and it was found 
that the former had over sixty inches of rain to twenty inches 
on the latter. In this country, owing to the influence of the 
mountains and other causes, we have more rain than in the 
Old World, although less dull weather. But the mountain 
air is the very air of freedom. Strength is with the hills ; 
and their dwellers always drive out those of the valleys. 
Indeed, the mountaineers are our true national guard. 
They have the truest, tenderest love for home, as we have 
had melancholy proof in the Swiss, who often died of home- 
sickness in the wars of Napoleon ; and in the Highland 
regiments of the English army, who could never be con- 
tented till their tartan was taken away, and every thing that 
reminded them of home excluded. The mountains of the New 
World, if they are none of them so high, or so startling and 
imposing in their forms, as those of the Old World, are 
much longer and broader, extending, in a continuous chain, 
for thousands of miles, in South America, the highlands of 
Mexico, and the western portion of the United States ; 
while, on the eastern shore, the Alleghanies continue nearly 
through the northern half of the continent. Of two hun- 
dred volcanoes in the world, a hundred and sixteen belong 
to America ; and while, in the Old World, they stand alone, 
in the New they dot a large extent of the mountain- 
chain. These volcanoes are the sources of the mineral 
springs : they enrich the soil, as is proved by the fine vol- 
canic lands of California, and probably perform many other 
offices of a bountiful nature of which we are ignorant at 
present. A chain of the loveliest of lakes is found in the 
mountains of South America, continuing through the high- 
lands of Mexico. But mountains are of the most impor- 
tance as the sources of streams. 



166 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

Everywhere the whole continent is penetrated by those 
magnificent rivers, which are, indeed, as Pascal calls them, 
" marching roads," refreshing and gladdening the scene, 
both giving beauty to and receiving it from their shores, and 
before whose mighty power the rivers of the Old World 
sink into insignificance. These rivers, taken with the 
mountains, finely divide the country into important sections. 
The Mississippi, reckoned from the Missouri, its true 
source, is more than four thousand miles long, and is infe- 
rior only to the Amazon, which is a continuous stream of 
four thousand miles, glides through fields covered with the 
rankest verdure, and forests whose gi:andeur strikes the be- 
holder with wonder and awe. The Mississippi has fifty 
thousand square miles of boat navigation. This, and 
the other mighty rivers of our continent, must always fur- 
nish the means of communication between the different 
portions of our country, and prevent its sinking into the 
barbarism of unknown Africa. Russia, in all her pride of 
power, may well envy us some of these avenues of internal 
traffic. If we wish to be persuaded of our immense re- 
sources in navigation, let us look at one of the States alone, 
-^ Maine, for instance ; and we see how it is threaded by 
rivers, — silver streams in more senses than one. The 
alluvial soil on the shores of such rivers is always immensely 
productive. Indeed, the whole continent is especially suited 
to cultivation ; for, although it has not half as large an 
amount of land as the Old World, it is quite its equal in 
that suited to tillage. There is not a single desert in Ame- 
rica, with the exception of one on the Chilian coast : for the 
western portion of the Mississippi is never entirely destitute 
of herbage ; while the most desolate parts of New Mexico 
abound in salt lakes, and in licks, so called because it is said 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 167 

that animals come down from the highlands to lick up the 
saline particles with which the soil is impregnated. Our 
prairies and pampas, stretching for miles, fields of waving 
green, without a stone or hillock, and affording sustenance 
to countless herds, more than rival the tangled tropical 
vegetation of the Old World. 

The vegetable kingdom of the New World is much more 
extensive than that of the Old in proportion to the soil. 
Of fifty thousand different species of plants on the globe, 
according to Humboldt, twenty thousand belong to Ame- 
rica, while Europe has but ten thousand. Linn^us, in his 
graphic language, says " that a practical botanist can, at 
the first glance, distinguish the plants of Europe, Asia, 
Africa, and America ; but it is not easy to tell how one 
does this." There is a certain character of sullenness, 
obscurity, and gloom in the plants of Africa; something 
lofty and elevated in- those of Asia ; sweet and smiling in 
those of America. Asia has the banyan, which, like the 
fabled giant of old, renews its strength by touching the 
earth ; of which Milton sings, — 

"In the gi'ound 
The bended twigs take root; and daughters grow . 
About the mother tree, — a pillared shade, 
High overarched, and echoing walks between." 

Africa has the mighty adansonia, the largest tree in the 
world. Indeed, all the rarest and most curious kinds 
of trees, fruits, and edible roots, belong to the Old World. 
We have wild cherries, plums, and crab-apples ; but they 
will probably never receive the attention here they have 
obtained in Europe, where they have been so highly culti- 
vated that Michaux mentions three hundred different 
kinds of apples in France alone. We have, however, many 



168 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

curious and valuable tropical trees, — trees which are, as 
has been said of the olive, a real mine on the surface of the 
earth. The native, with his little cabin, his plot of ground, 
and a few plantain-trees, is able easily to support his care- 
less existence. Of edible plants, we have our own pease, 
beans, onions, artichokes, potatoes, and many others. Many 
edible roots are probably still unused, which may take the 
place of the potato, if that plant should die out. We are 
rich in grasses, the most precious of the vegetable produc- 
tions. It has been computed that one-sixth of all the plants 
on the globe are grasses ; and, of these, America has a large 
proportion, — much larger than Europe. Linnaeus, who was 
fond of tracing analogies between men and plants, called 
grasses the plebeians of the vegetable world. Rustic in taste, 
humble in dress, like the useful farmer in society, they 
everywhere mark the line between verdure and sterility, 
gladdening the heart of man, and affording food to flocks 
and herds. Whilst the grains need our constant care for 
their preservation, the grasses grow without fail, under the 
protection of the Almighty Father alone. It would be 
impossible to estimate, in dollars, the value of this carpet of 
verdure which clothes our hills and valleys in living green. 
Such plants as cotton, maize, tobacco, and sugar-cane, ate 
apparently of more importance as staples of commerce. 

Maize should be used on our seal as the symbol of our 
wealth. Of all the cereals, it grows most widely, extending 
from the forty-fourth degree of north latitude to the corre- 
sponding parallel south. It grows wild on the Rocky 
Mountains and in the forests of Paraguay. The earliest 
historians of this country speak of its cultivation ; and the 
palace-gardens of the Incas were ornamented with its grains, 
spikes, and leaves, in gold and silver. According to the 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 169 

census of 1850, the corn-crop of the United States amounted 
to 592,326,612 bushels. The crop of Illinois had increased 
sixty per cent in ten years. 

Nature has richly endowed both worlds with the cotton 
which so bountifully aids the civilized as well as the savage 
man, and adds to the commerce and wealth of the countries 
producing it. The earliest histories speak of its cultivation,, 
and the discoverers of this continent found the natives using 
it. It has been said that the cotton of the East Indies is 
superior to that of America ; but it was not so proved at the 
World's Fair. The culture of the cotton in this country 
has, however, receded south. It was once grown in Vir- 
ginia, but is now confined to the Southern States ; and 
Alabama is the finest cotton-growing State. The abstract 
of the seventh census asserts, in spite of this, that the crop 
will rather increase than diminish, and that, in 1860, it will 
probably amount to four millions of bales. 

Tobacco, like the maize, was first found in this country, 
extending from New Hampshire to Mexico. It is now 
largely cultivated in France and other European countries, 
in the Levant, and in India ; but the tobacco of the United 
States is generally admitted to be superior to others. It has 
a much higher flavor than the tobacco of Europe ; a supe- 
riority probably owing to climate and soil. The quantity of 
tobacco exported from the United States in 1852 amounted 
to two hundred million pounds. Tobacco is cultivated in 
Mexico, but only for home consumption. According to 
M'CuUoch, tobacco is one of the principal sources of the 
Mexican revenue, and has yielded the government nearly 
half a million of dollars. In all the Spanish provinces of 
that country, we shall find trade so restricted by vexatious 
monopolies as to be almost destroyed. 

22 



170 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

Wheat, rice, and sugar-cane, as well as oats, rye, and 
barley, are not indigenous to the country ; but our soil 
and climate are especially suited to their cultivation. 
Wheat is, next to maize, the most important crop in the 
United States, and is easily grown not only in North but 
in South America. Portions of Canada are the best wheat- 
producing lands in the world. Next to the samples of 
wheat from Australia, our own were the finest at the 
World's Fair. The census of 1850 shows that the wheat- 
crop has progressed with the population of the oldest States 
of the Union. In 1850 it amounted to a hundred million 
bushels. The sugar-cane and rice are confined to narrower 
limits. Rice, which forms one-third part of the food of the 
human race, is cultivated in the torrid zone, wherever there 
is plenty of water, and will mature as high as the forty-fifth 
degree of north latitude, and the thirty-eighth of south. 
Wild rice is found on the shores of Lake Michigan, and was 
used by the natives as a substitute for the rice of commerce. 
All these plants, which form so large a portion of the food 
of man, must be considered of the utmost importance in esti- 
mating the resources of a country. We must not forget our 
native grape, which, we are confident, will one day furnish 
sparkling wines for the feasts of the Old as well as the New 
World. It is curious to observe how cultivation extirpates 
native plants. We cannot, for instance, find the wild oat, 
barley, or wlieat ; and the native country of the squash is 
unknown. Plants left to nature rarely decay, though Hum- 
boldt mentions a case of vegetable death in the State of 
Maine, about twenty years ago. Plants are sometimes 
strangely neglected. The potato, which was carried from 
this country to Ireland, was not used here until brought 
back by the immigrants from Londonderry ; and we know 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 171 

that the plum, cherry, cabbage, and other plants, were 
unknown in England in Henry VIII. 's time, though they 
had been common two centuries before. 

But we are richest in timber-trees. There are more than 
a hundred and thirty-seven different species of timber- 
trees, above thirty feet in height, in America. Of seventy- 
four known species of oak, forty-four belong to this 
continent. We all know the importance of the fruit, 
wood, and bark of this tree ; the wood, from its hardness 
and durability, being of special value in ship-building. The 
live oak rivals the teak-wood of India ; but, being confined 
to certain favorable localities, it is, for want of care, rapidly 
diminishing in 'the United States. It is still, however, an 
important article of manufacture and export. Next to the 
oak, in number of species, comes the ash, the distinguishing 
properties of whose wood are strength and elasticity ; and it 
unites them to so high a degree, that, for many valuable 
purposes, it could be but imperfectly replaced by any other 
tree. There are as many as thirty species found east of the 
Mississippi. The mahogany, walnut, and maple are of par- 
ticular use in cabinet-making and various kinds of building. 
The mahogany and walnut are both natives of the East 
Indies ; and the mahogany, which is found abundantly in 
the Gulf countries, is valuable not only for the durability 
of its wood, but for the peculiar polish of whicli it is suscep- 
tible. The walnut is largely used, and ranks near the oak 
and the ash in the number of its species. More than ten 
have been found within the United States. 

Tlie maple, in general, is a lofty and beautiful tree, 
often reaching the height of eighty or ninety feet. Seven 
s})ecies have been found in North America ; and they are 
the less liable to die out, as, from their rapid growth, they 



172 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

are constantly used for shade-trees. To the maples succeed 
the birches, — very important and valuable trees, and grow- 
ing in the poorest land. The natives made houses of their 
wood, and canoes of their bark : with their leaves they 
dyed their nets, and from the sap procured a mild and sac- 
charine beverage. Michaux mentions seven different species 
found in North America. We have only two varieties of the 
beach, and two of the elm ; but these grow easily and 
abundantly. One of the finest and most beautiful trees 
east of the Mississippi is the locust. It has durability su- 
perior to that of any other tree, except the red mulberry. 
It grows rapidly ; and nothing can be more beautiful than 
its branches when in full bloom. It is common to all the 
Eastern States. There are fourteen different species of 
pine in America. These are of value, not only for their 
wood, but for the pitch, tar, and turpentine which are 
obtained from them. There were about a hundred thou- 
sand dollars' worth of mahogany, cedar-wood, and satin-wood 
exported in 1852 from the United States. All kinds of 
lumber exported amounted to a hundred and twenty-three 
thousand dollars. The tar, pitch, rosin, and turpentine 
exported exceeded a hundred thousand dollars. 

We have not spoken of the numerous beautiful species of 
magnolia, or of the other rare curiosities of our forests, — 
not even of the mighty cypress-trees of the Valley of the 
Mississippi, or the giants of the Amazon ; for we can give 
only a very general idea of the number and importance of 
our forest-trees. The late gambling mania in timber-lands 
in Maine proved how highly they were valued ; but no sta- 
tistics can give us any exact notion of their importance. 
We must remember that we are a nation of twenty-five 
millions of people, constantly consuming wood for fuel. 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 173 

manufacture, and building. Every ship that sails on our 
seas has shorn some forest of its glory. It may interest the 
curious to learn that our largest merchant vessels have 
the keel of rock-maple, the beams and deck of pitch-pine, the 
planks of white oak, the knees of hackmatack (a species of 
larch), and the masts of white pine. White oak was for- 
merly much more used than now. Our Materia Medica 
has been largely enriched by the gums and barks of these 
trees, as well as by roots and herbs. The sassafras-tree 
was the especial object of the search of the early discoverers 
of our country. 

The fauna of a country very much depends upon its 
flora ; as herbivorous animals alone abound where the soil 
is rich and prolific, while the carnivorous always have a 
wider range. We shall find that wild animals decrease as 
domestic animals increase in value by civilization ; and 
the day will come in America, when the bear, bison, 
and elk will be rare. The staple animal productions of a 
country must then be derived from those animals which 
live in climates defying cultivation, or in the waters where 
man has but limited power. Indeed, as if to provide an 
unfailing source of food for human beings, the water is an 
inalienable home of the animal, as the land is of the vege- 
table kingdom ; and there, comparatively safe from the 
exterminating power of man, the abundance of the seas 
constantly awaits his necessities. Humboldt and other 
naturalists have declared that not a single bird or beast is 
common to both worlds. But this must be taken in a large 
sense : for we must consider as more correct the assertion 
of Agassiz, that the arctic fauna of both continents is the 
same ; that there is a similarity, but not identity, in the 
temperate zones of both worlds ; and that, as to the tropical 



174 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

fauna, the two continents are almost wholly unlike. The 
grand divisions of a continent also mark distinctions in 
its fauna, which varies greatly east and west of the Rocky 
Mountains, on the Andes, and on the highlands of Brazil. 
We shall also find, as remarked by Linnaeus, that all the 
larger animals belong to the Old World : the elephant, the 
lion, and the tiger reign in the primeval forests of Africa, 
whose darkness no dawn of civilization has ever pene- 
trated. Almost all the domestic animals belong to the 
Old World. We have, however, the sheep of the Rocky 
Mountains, and the prairie dog. Buffon has asserted, that, 
while plants improve by transplanting from the Old World, 
animals always deteriorate. This can be true only in those 
cases where they have not received proper attention. The 
swine which were left by the Southern adventurers in the 
forests of Georgia grew to an immense size ; and the horse 
has become almost native to our Western plains, — so much 
so as to be constantly used by the Indians ; and we have 
heard startling accounts of the Cossack-riding of the Caman- 
ches. We have not as yet, however, produced any breeds 
peculiarly our own. Proper attention has been bestowed 
only on neat cattle and domestic fowls ; and, of these last, 
we doubt if the imported shanghais can ever equal the un- 
assuming old hen that first came to our shores. All our 
lasting resources in the fauna of this country must be found 
in those animals which produce furs ; and, in those, we can 
nearly equal the Old World. We have sable and ermine, — 
both royal furs ; foxes, badgers, and bears ; while the beauti- 
ful mink and chinchilla are wholly American. The fur-trade 
of the last year amounted to nearly a million dollars. 
The birds of a country are of no great importance, except 
as sources of pleasure. It is remarkable that we have so 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 175 

few singing-birds ; as the nightingale, telling her lamenta- 
ble story, her breast upon a thorn ; the lark, which sings 
at heaven's gate ; and the English robin, with her house- 
hold chirp, — are not heard among us. Many birds of the 
most beautiful plumage are strangers to our continent, as 
the whole tribe of parrots belong to the East Indies ; but we 
are not wholly wanting in rare and beautiful birds. We 
have an abundance of humming-birds, — those flowers of the 
animal kingdom, of which there are more than three hundred 
species, as if nature delighted in fashioning them ; mocking- 
birds, that ape their more gifted sisters ; and the eagle, with 
his eyry in our mountains, — tlie symbol of our sovereignty. 
We have also many birds which furnish excellent food ; 
numerous tribes of ducks and geese ; and the wild turkey, 
whose beauty it cost the painter-naturalist Audubon so 
much pains to delineate. Aquatic birds have recently ac- 
quired a new value from the guano they produce, whicli has 
enriched the kingdom of Peru like the opening of a new mine. 
The real source of our animal wealth is in the rivers 
and seas. There are more than ten thousand known spe- 
cies of fish : and a very large proportion of these liaunt 
our shores ; for, like animals on land, they always frequent 
certain localities. Some of them, indeed, have a wide 
range, as the oyster extends from Nova Scotia to Florida ; 
and we are confident, that, if the elk dies out in our forests 
and the turkey on our plains, this bivalve will prove an in- 
exhaustible resource to man. Fish have, from time imme- 
morial, been an important article of food. Lucullus, the 
Roman epicure, found fish the most expensive rarity on 
his table. In modern times, James II., of England, was 
entertained with a magnificent banquet, wholly of fish ; 
and the fishmongers' guild in London has still luxurious 



176 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

feasts, though not confined to fish. As articles, tlierefore, of 
consumption and export, they are great sources of wealth. 
Entire communities have, as Mr. Sabine says in his invalua- 
ble report, believed that there was no surer way to wealth 
and eminence than by traffic in the fisheries. The asser- 
tions of Smith, that the waters of New England were more 
abundant in fish than those of Newfoundland, had a con- 
trolling effect in directing thither the steps of adventurers. 
The cod fisheries have proved the most valuable of the 
American fisheries ; and they early became a source of 
rivalry among European nations. In the seventeenth cen- 
tury, France boasted that her cod fisheries could supply con- 
tinental Europe ; and, since that time, there has been no 
diminution in the trade. We can derive some idea of its 
importance from Mr. Sabine, who writes that he has docu- 
ments showing that the value of dry codfish imported into 
the little kingdom of Portugal alone for twenty-five years, 
ending in 1825, amounted to thirty-nine million dollars. 
According to M'Culloch, the total produce of the British 
fisheries in the various seas and rivers of America, including 
oil, seal, and skins, is estimated at an average, for the five 
years ending in 1832, of 14,500,000 a year. This has not 
decreased since. The trade of other countries is much less. 
According to the report of M. Aucet, France employed, in 
1851, about three hundred vessels in the cod fisheries. 

The United States, from their vicinity, have, of course, 
the utmost interest in these fisheries. Well may they value 
such a source of wealth, when every Englishman is ready to 
do battle for them, and appreciates them as highly as the 
renowned Sam Slick, who writes from Nova Scotia to his 
friend, " They are in the midst of fisheries, squire, — all 
sorts of fisheries too : river fisheries of shad, salmon, gas- 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 177 

pereau, and herring ; shore fisheries of mackerel and cod ; 
Bank fishery and Labrador fishery. I never seed nor heerd 
tell of a country that had so many natral privileges as this." 
The most important fishing on the coast of America is that of 
the cod, mackerel, herring, and whale. In 1840, the capital 
invested in the fisheries was about sixteen million dollars. 
In 1852, 369,002 tons of shipping were employed in the 
United States in the whale, mackerel, and cod fishery. The 
fish — dried, smoked, and packed — imported into the United 
States amounted to more than half a million of dollars ; 
while that exported was valued at about two million dol- 
lars. Mackerel frequent our shores in schools ; and we 
have often seen a little fleet of three hundred vessels busy 
all day in catching this delicious fish. 

The herring fishery is more precarious. Herrings have 
entirely disappeared from the shores of Sweden, where they 
were once abundant. Even the whale has constantly 
decreased in number, and has fled to basins and shores less 
accessible to man. We cannot expect that any place like 
New Bedford or Nantucket will again spring up from the 
wealth of the whale fisheries. But the river fishery is the 
most changeable of all. Salmon, and fish like the shy trout, 
invariably fly the approach of man ; but we may trust that 
their place will always be supplied by the innumerable finny 
tribes that dwell in the deep. We cannot, of course, esti- 
mate the vakie of such fish as the white-fish of our lakes, or 
other varieties of our rivers ; but we know, as Dr. Franklin 
says, that he who draws out a* fish from the sea, draws out 
a piece of silver. Surely our fishermen are of inestimable 
importance. If our mountaineers are our national land- 
guard, our fishermen are our real navy. Indeed, men 
trained in the painful and dangerous labors of the seal 

23 



178 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

and whale fishery are not likely to be alarmed at any of the 
exigencies or horrors of war. Mr. Sabine truly remarks, 
that eminent authors on commerce and navigation, and 
statesmen of world-wide fame, have declared that the Eng- 
lish navy became formidable alone by the discovery of the 
inexhaustibly rich banks of Newfoundland ; and that writers 
of acknowledged judgment have observed, that, by the cod 
fishery in America, her navy became formidable to all 
Europe. 

In precious stones, the New is inferior to the Old World. 
The diamonds of Brazil and the pearls of California have 
already become famous ; but they will never equal those 
of Golconda and Balsora. It truly seems more fitting that 
such precious jewels should be found in a world where 
they could adorn the state of princes, the orgies of a Cleo- 
patra, or the pomp of triumphal processions. We trust that 
individuals in this country will never attain a wealth which 
shall justify extravagance in such bawbles. 

But if in our vegetables we are the granary, so in our 
metals we are the treasury, of the world. Gold and silver 
were wrought in the first ages. We find that they were 
lavishly used by the princes of Mexico and the Incas of 
Peru, on the discovery of our own continent. Indeed, 
avarice was the ruling motive which impelled the Europe- 
ans to the exploration and settlement of our country. Little 
did they think that the golden ears of maize were of more 
value than the mine of Mexico. The immense amount of the 
precious metals which flooded Spain after the discovery of 
the mines of Brazil, Potosi, and Mexico, by disturbing trade, 
was probably one cause of the decline of power in that 
monarchy. The gold and silver mines of the Old World 
seem generally to have decreased in value, and some were 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 179 

no longer worked on the discovery of America. There was 
a general and constant increase in the amount of these 
metals, during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, 
till, in 1809, the value of gold and silver, obtained in 
America, Europe, and Siberia, amounted to fifty million 
dollars ; which, from the wars of Napoleon and other causes, 
decreased, in 1829, to twenty-five million. Of this immense 
sum, two-thirds of the silver of the world were exported from 
Mexico. 

Peru, including Bolivia or Upper Peru, has always been 
considered the most prolific gold region in the world, 
with the exception of California. The celebrated silver 
mountain of Potosi is eighteen miles in circumference, and 
almost an entire mass of ore. In two hundred years, it 
yielded no less than sixteen hundred and forty-seven mil- 
lion dollars. Since 1829, the mines of Georgia, Carolina, 
and California, have been opened ; and the golden store 
has constantly increased, until the fable of Aladdin's wealth 
has become more than realized. 

The gold region of California extends from four to five 
hundred miles in length, and from forty to fifty in width, 
on the western slope of the Nevada. A writer in the 
" London Athengeum " estimates the supply of gold in the 
world, for 1851, at a hundred million dollars, of which 
seventy-five million came from California. T. Butler King, 
in his report to the Government, estimates the value of gold 
dug in California from 1848 to 1849 at forty million dollars. 
The amount of two hundred and sixty million dollars was 
officially returned from the mint of San Francisco, for the 
five years and ten months ending in 1853. Some have 
asserted that the future supply cannot be less than seventy- 
live million dollars annually ; but a writer in the " North 



180 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

British Review " for 1851 asserts that it will not exceed 
twenty-five million for the next quarter of a century. As 
soon as the gold ceases to be found in the river-washings, 
and must be worked out in the mountains, it will become 
less remunerative ; the golden day of California will have 
departed : but then she will have become richer as an agri- 
cultural State, and her farmers will have more than replaced 
her miners. The riches of a community, wisely adds the 
English critic, depend upon the mass of commodities which 
they possess ; to which the metallic wealth will always bear 
a small proportion. 

Quicksilver has not till recently been found in North 
America ; but the mines of it in Peru have been of the 
greatest importance in working the silver-mines of Mexico. 

Tin also is of rare occurrence, even in the Old World. 
In the United States, according to Dr. Jackson, it was first 
found in Jackson, New Hampshire. Since then, it has been 
reported that veins have been discovered in California ; 
while they were long ago found in Brazil, and worked in 
Mexico. 

Iron is the metal most widely diffused and most abun- 
dant in this country ; so much so, that no large district 
exists without it. It is found along the Appalachian chain, 
through New England, and in Nova Scotia ; but is deposited 
in the most remarkable form in Missouri. Pilot Knob, five 
hundred feet high, is partly, and Iron Mountain, three hun- 
dred feet high and two miles in circumference, is entirely, 
composed of this metal. On the shores of Lake Superior 
also there are large mines of this ore. The products of 
wrought and pig iron in the United States in 1850 amounted 
to twenty-eight million dollars. 

Copper has been found abundantly in this country ; and, 



THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 181 

in the basin of Lake Superior, extends for several thousand 
miles. Masses of tolerably pure copper, weighing four tons, 
have been found. The amount extracted in 1850 was 
estimated at two thousand tons. We would refer to the 
report of Dr. Jackson for interesting statistics with regard 
to the mineral wealth in the region of the Great Lakes. 

Missouri, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Illinois are our great 
lead States. There is a district of lead in Missouri extend- 
ing a hundred miles in length and fifty in breadth. This 
deposit is, however, far exceeded by that of Wisconsin, 
which extends into Iowa and Illinois. In 1839, the lead 
smelted from this deposit amounted to thirty million pounds. 
Lead ore also abounds in other States ; but has been gene- 
rally neglected, on account of the facility with which the 
mines of Wisconsin have been worked. 

The veriest miser would grow weary in reckoning our 
stores of antimony, manganese, cobalt, and zinc ; our wealth 
in quarries of marble, limestone, and granite ; the treasures, 
known and unknown, in our own fair land, through the 
length and breadth of Canada, and in the unexplored 
regions of South America. 

If all else fail us, we shall still be rich in our coal- 
fields, which are enormously developed in North America. 
The coal in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick covers an 
extent of a thousand miles ; in Massachusetts and Rhode 
Island, it measures five hundred square miles ; the great 
Appalachian coal-field reaches from New York to Ala- 
bama ; while the coal-fields of Michigan, Missouri, and 
Iowa, to say nothing of those farther west, make the grand 
total equal to two hundred and twenty-five thousand square 
miles. Even if our country should be as densely peopled 
as Great Britain, which has two hundred and fifty persons 



182 THE RESOURCES OF OUR COUNTRY. 

to the square mile, she would have an abundance of coal 
to warm her people, — a nation of seven hundred millions. 
In 1845, the amount of coal mined in all the country was 
about four million tons ; and, in 1852, it probably was 
increased to six million. 

We have thus attempted to give some idea of the 
resources of North America. Our remarks have, of course, 
been very limited and imperfect. Even the United States, 
where enterprise is most active, is but partially explored 
and cultivated. It is not many years ago, that the journey 
of Col. Fremont across the Rocky Mountains was considered 
as hazardous in the extreme. Necessity, the spur of exer- 
tion, has hardly been felt ; and we of the temperate zone 
have almost luxuriated in tropical wealth, the trees drop- 
ping their ripened fruit into the idle hand. What results 
may not be imagined from the force of increasing popula- 
tion ! 

Already the entering wedge of Anglo-Saxon energy has 
penetrated the fine country of Mexico, and South America 
must soon feel its impulse. We were astonished at the sta- 
tistical report for 1851 of the kingdom of Chili, — a small 
and comparatively poor kingdom, which, with a population 
of little more than a million, exported goods to the amount 
of twenty-eight million dollars. What will such a country 
be, when the invaluable resources of the basin of the Ama- 
zon, Oronoco, and La Plata, are fully developed ? Plainly, 
we have insignia of sovereignty worthy of a free people in 
our sheaves of grain, our golden spikes of maize, our glow- 
ing forges, and in our eagle, meet emblem of the progressive 
spirit of our fresh and vigorous civilization. 



183 



SLAVERY.* 



Slavery is almost as old as the world. It seemed so natu- 
ral a state to the philosphers of antiquity, that they never 
appeared to think that the human race could exist without 
it ; and no one of either ancient or modern writers on law 
has attempted to expose the consequences of slavery upon 
society. Yet these consequences have been most import- 
ant ; for, in all ages, every nation has exercised a powerful 
influence upon other nations, according to its manners, 
wealth, and intelligence ; and it follows, that no nation 
which has rejected slavery can have escaped its influence as 
long as it existed. 

We shall endeavor to show the effect which slavery has 
had, in all ages, on the moral, intellectual, and physical 
nature of master and slave ; judging it only in masses, and 
not in isolated cases, which may have escaped the usual 
results. The history of slavery may be divided into three 
epochs : the first, beginning with the earliest times, and end- 
ing with the fall of the Roman empire ; the second, that of 



* This article wtis written in the spring of 1857, and was left in an unfinished 
and somewhat fragmentary state, as increasing illness prevented its revision and 
completion. It is printed as it was left, being on the last subject to which the 
writer was able to devote any continuous thought. She had been reading, at the 
time, Comte's " Traits de Legislation," referred to in one of her latest letters. 



184 SLAVER Y. 

the feudal regime ; and the third, dating from the sixteenth 
century, with the foundation of the European colonies in 
America, and extending to our own time. 

During the first epoch, slavery existed in all the states of 
Europe. Prisoners of war were part of the booty ; and the 
aristocracy of Rome cared very little for the loss of a few 
soldiers, if they could make a whole city slaves. Slavery 
became the interest of the aristocracy. The most influen- 
tial men were those who possessed the greatest number of 
slaves, and they used their authority to guarantee their pos- 
sessions. Even the priests of Apollo demanded their portion 
of the prisoners of war as slaves. 

In the second epoch, slaves were commonly attached 
to the soil ; and their masters, owing to the general poverty, 
obliged to consume the greater part of their revenues 
without exchange, and lived with their slaves on the pro- 
duce of the land. The masters, being little united by 
trade, were little united in other interests. Consequently, 
their authority over their slaves was feeble ; and the slaves, 
by often uniting with one man against another, increased 
their own power. 

In the third epoch, slavery has appeared under a new 
aspect. The slaves have no longer belonged to the same 
race as their masters : they have differed in color, features, 
religion, and manners. The enslaved have been devoted to 
some especial branch of agriculture, and have been allowed 
only the absolute necessaries of life ; but the masters have 
been constantly restrained by the opinions of Christian 
nations who have rejected slavery. 

Nothing could be more cruel tlian slavery, as it existed 
among the Romans. A father could sell his children, 
even if married, and also his grandchildren ; debtors were 



SLAVERY. 1^5 

sold by creditors ; citizen, by citizen. The market was 
always open ; and the law allowed the most severe punish- 
ments to be inflicted by the masters. A slave, among the 
Romans, owned nothing, — neither family, lodging, clothes, 
nor even his own life. Like all property, he belonged, body 
and soul, to his master. 

The slaves of the middle ages had a more endurable 
position : for, being attached to the soil, they were sold only 
with it ; and, the product of their labor having little 
exchangeable value, a considerable portion of it often 
remained to the cultivators. 

Slavery in the American colonies resembles that under 
the Romans, but differs from it in three remarkable 
points : the slaves and masters belong to different races ; 
the products of their labor are generally intended for 
export ; and the masters are restrained by the influence of 
Christian nations. 

In order to judge of the effects which slavery produces, it 
is necessary to consider not only the physical, intellectual, 
and moral faculties of men, but the different kinds of degra- 
dation and perfection of which those faculties are suscepti- 
ble. The physical nature of man has not been degraded by 
slavery ; for, while the slaves are employed in all kinds of 
menial offices, the masters have indulged themselves in 
the chase, and in such exercises as have tended to the per- 
fection of the body. But the same circumstances which 
conspire to give the masters a fine organization, conspire 
also to ruin the physique of the slaves. We have few 
documents upon this subject from the ancients ; but we 
cannot imagine that Phidias sought his models among the 
Helots. In modern times, we well know how destructive 
the influence of slavery is to the physical constitution of the 

24 



186 SLAVERY. 

slaves. According to Raynal, the slaves in the French 
colonies decreased one-fifteenth every year ; and the colo- 
nies in America have been mainly supported by the slave- 
trade. 

The first efiect of slavery on the masters is to make 
them look upon useful labor with contempt. " In a State 
perfectly governed," says Aristotle, " the citizens ought to 
exercise neither mechanical arts nor mercantile employ- 
ments ; and they ought not even to be laborers." This was 
the general opinion of the Greeks and Romans. The great- 
est reproach that Antony made to Octavius was, not that he 
was hypocritical, perfidious, and cruel, but that, among his 
ancestors, there was one who had exercised a useful busi- 
ness, — that of a banker. 

The slavery of the feudal era produced the same efiect 
upon the masters ; and men who considered themselves de- 
graded by buying horses, or digging the ground, felt not 
degraded by buying and selling human beings. 

In modern times, also, idleness has been considered a vir- 
tue. The Dutch, at home the most industrious of people, 
have shown themselves as indolent as other colonists ; and, 
in the United States, it is well known that masters leave 
industrious labors entirely to the slaves. We may ask 
what effect slavery has on the industrious habits of the 
slave. Forced to labor for his master, he does every thing 
in a mechanical manner ; and, if the masters should perish, 
it is evident that the arts would perish with them. 

Idle thus from principle, there was another cause which 
in ancient times hindered the intellectual and industrial 
development of the masters. By position they were despots ; 
and despotism and idleness are opposed to all improvement. 

In modern times, most nl' tlie European colonies which 



SLAVER \ 



187 



have received slavery have rather retreated than advanced 
in the march of improvement. The Anglo-Americans alone 
have found themselves, in many respects, in the situation of 
the Roman masters. Free with regard to themselves, they 
are despots in relation to the slave. Despising labor, they 
can have no knowledge of its processes ; but they have deve- 
loped their talents in the art of government. If the South- 
ern States have furnished the men most fit to govern, and 
the North the men most skilful in business, it has been owing 
to the presence of slavery with the former. The slaves of 
these masters receive no intellectual education. They are, 
in general, idle and awkward ; for the hand executes well 
only what the mind has well conceived. Our physical organs 
are, so to speak, merely the instruments of our intelligence ; 
and that intelligence, when it has received no development, 
can never well direct the organs which obey its will. 

Our observations, thus far, must lead us to conclude, in 
the first place, that slavery has no bad effect on the physical 
nature of the master, but that it must always hinder him 
from acquiring a control over the forces of nature. In the 
second place, we conclude that slavery favors the intel- 
lectual development of individuals of the same class in all 
that relates to the art of governing men, or of acquir- 
ing dominion over them. In the third place, we feel con- 
fident that slavery is utterly destructive to the intellectual, 
moral, and physical nature of the slave, and that it makes 
him useless to himself as well as to others. 

Slavery has a most injurious effect on that class of the 
people who must labor for their living. This effect was 
much more fatal among the ancients than the moderns ; for 
the ancients emigrated only with arms in their hands, 
while every country is open to the modern free laborer. In 



188 SLAVERY. 

» 

the middle age of the Roman republic, when the fields were 
tilled by slaves, and the slaves of the aristocracy exer- 
cised all the different trades, there were no means of live- 
lihood remaining to that large class of free Roman citizens 
called proletaries, except public distributions, pillage made 
in war, largesses from those who wished to buy their votes, 
or some trade secretly exercised. In the year 278 of the 
foundation of the city, this class of people numbered more 
than a hundred and ten thousand men, who were not 
allowed to pursue commercial business or any trade. The 
poor debtors were reduced to slavery, and their condition 
was a constant cry of insurrection. When we see Caesar 
repeopling Corinth and Carthage with Romans who had no 
home, and sending out colonies of eighty-four thousand men 
at a time, it is not difficult for us to believe in the exces- 
sive misery endured by that portion of the poor people of 
Rome who were not slaves. 

It is somewhat difficult to learn the effect which slavery 
has had upon the manners, whether of the ancients or the 
moderns ; for few or no books have been written on 
the subject, and we can judge only from incidental facts. 
Among the Romans, the first-fruits of slavery were, of 
course, idleness ; and when, in their career of conquest, 
war ceased, then followed the consequences of that idleness, 
— a mad passion for every kind of sensual enjoyment. It 
is almost impossible to conceive of the gluttony of the 
Roman grandees, when the earth was ravaged to furnish 
their debauchery, and the riches of a province were swal- 
lowed up in a repast. Love had no delicacy among them 
as among the moderns ; for masters accustomed to beat 
virgins with rods knew no power but force, and had 
never learned to yield to persuasion or prayers. Women 



SLAV E R Y. 189 

were scarce higher in reputed rank than slaves ; and it is 
easy to imagine the corruption that prevailed among the 
young men in such a society. The women also must have 
been faithless and jealous, when every slave might be a 
rival : of this we have a startling proof in the conspiracy 
of the patrician women against their husbands, when a 
hundred and sixty women, all of them the wives of senators, 
were convicted of poisoning, and condemned to death. Di- 
vorce became so common, that some writers said the women 
counted their years, not by the consuls, but by the number 
of their husbands. Scarcely does an author speak of a cele- 
brated man, without also speaking of the debauchery of his 
wife and sisters. So great was the general immorality, that 
the senate thought to stay it by exiling the women. But we 
stand aghast as we contemplate this degraded state of 
society. The Romans showed themselves no less passionate 
for plays and shows than for the pleasures of the table. Gla- 
diators followed the ferocious contests of wild beasts ; and 
Trajan, of happy memory, slaughtered, for the pleasure of 
his subjects, about ten thousand men and eleven thousand 
beasts. 

When such was the character of the masters, what must 
have been the condition of the slaves ? They have had, alas ! 
no historians. But how often do we read of slaves escaping 
from prisons, and showing their cruel wounds in the market- 
place ! We know to what degradation poor debtors were 
subjected. In order to protect themselves, the masters 
procured a law, that, every time a master was found dead, 
every slave he owned should perish with him ; and Tacitus 
tells us of one instance in which four hundred slaves were 
slain, without form of trial, because their master was found 
dead in his house. Torn by rods, starved in dungeons, 



190 S L A V E R Y. 

nailed to tlie cross, — we slirink with horror from siicli 
cruelties, even after thousands of years. Seditions were 
frequent, but rarely or never among the foreign slaves, and 
were common only among the debtors. Patricians could 
never become slaves ; as their plebeian clients were bound 
to pay their debts, and became slaves if they did not pay 
them. These poor clients also were bound to give dowries 
to the daughters of their patrician lords ; and, oppressed by 
so many taxes, they but too readily fell a prey to the patri- 
cian creditor and master. 

Such was slavery among the Romans. Among the patri- 
cians, there were the usual contempt for labor, love of idle- 
ness, passion for sensual pleasures and gross spectacles, 
cruelty, debauchery, pride, perfidy, and arrogance ; and the 
richest even of the plebeians had scarcely the dignity of a 
modern mendicant. 

Among the moderns, slavery has had a different influ- 
ence on manners : for, the slaves being of another race and 
color, every connection between the master and slave has 
been public ; and the children thus born, though no less 
slaves, have often been of as pure a color as their masters. 
Hence among all classes has arisen a contempt for family ties ; 
for how can brother care for brother, when he has the right to 
beat his brother, — the image of himself, — without interfe- 
rence or complaint ? Barrow, speaking of the colonies at the 
Cape, says that no society would tolerate their indecency ; 
and Sparrman writes, that the cruelty with which the slaves 
are treated exceeds all description. The Dutch Government 
at home has in vain attempted to restrain these colonists. 
" Truth," says Barrow, " is not among their virtues, de- 
cency is no more respected than truth," and robbery is not 
considered a crime. 



SLAVERY. 191 

The same manners prevail in Guiana. Stedman, in 
relating the cruelties of the masters of this colony, while 
endeavoring to save the women from his severest strictures, 
admits that they are unkind and harsh, and that they 
abandon themselves entirely to their passions. Of course, 
they are jealous of their handsome slaves ; and he speaks 
of mistresses who branded the young women on their 
plantations upon the cheeks and breast. The graver 
crimes, such as revolt or resistance, are, according to the 
same author, punished by the longest and most cruel tor- 
ments which the imagination of the master can invent ; 
such as burning, breaking on the wheel, &c., while the 
poor sufferer is often suspended upon a cross stick before 
a slow fire, and lingers many days in horrible torture. 
The pride of the masters is equal to their cruelty. Sted- 
man relates instances of their ferocity and arrogance, which 
are truly astonishing. 

Such are the manners of the Dutch in Guiana and at the 
Cape ; and they are the same in the other Dutch possessions 
of the East. So idle are the Dutch colonists, that it 
is well known the common labors of life could not be 
performed without the Chinese ; and Boujainville and 
Thumberg relate stories similar to those of Stedman.* 

If such are the consequences of slavery in all the Dutch 
colonies, the English have none the less suffered. It is 
necessary only to read the papers written both by the mas- 
ters and the friends of the slave, laid before Parliament, in 
order to effect the abolition of slavery in these colonies, 
for proof of the misery it has entailed upon master and 
slave. In private life, the conjugal tie has not been re- 



It must be remembered that these accounts reach only to 1825. 



192 SLAVERY. 

spected where a large portion of the slaves were of mulatto 
blood, and where the slave has held an equal place with her 
mistress in the heart of the master ; and men have easily 
learned to disregard the rights of their fellow-men of the 
same race, when every kind of indignity and cruelty was 
allowed to beings of their own blood. In Jamaica, it 
was conceded that the whites abandoned themselves to the 
grossest license ; and, though the slave was permitted to 
complain of the cruelties of the master, it appeared from 
witnesses, that these complaints were rarely heard. If the 
master had any dislike to the slave, he might easily sell him 
to a more cruel master ; families were separated, and the 
whip of the master repressed all the natural emotions of 
the slave. These deductions are drawn from the voluminous 
documents laid before Parliament, and fully corroborated by 
witnesses. 

Slavery has assumed in the United States a peculiar form 
and character ; for the citizens have adopted liberty as their 
watchword, and their government is the nearest approach 
to a free government that the world has yet seen. Besides, 
the union of free and slave States has had a modifying influ- 
ence upon slavery. Yet the Southern States have not escaped 
its evil effects. Its tendency has already been to degrade 
useful labor ; and travellers speak of idleness, and a love of 
physical enjoyments, as strikingly cliaracteristic of the 
Southern Anglo-American slaveholder. Sleeping, eating, 
and drinking are his principal pleasures. Walking is a 
fatigue, especially for the women ; and Probin notices their 
pronunciation as excessively languishing. Neither novelty 
nor striking events can startle their apathy ; and pride alone 
seems to rouse them. Even the free men who do not pos- 
sess slaves are less enterprising, robust, and ingenious than 



SLAVER Y. 193 

their Northern brethren. In private life, the eye at once 
detects the numerous liaisons which must have existed 
between master and slave ; and the mind naturally draws 
the inference from such licentiousness. 

Slavery has, however, been lightened on those plantations 
where sugar is not cultivated ; because the common pastoral 
labors are not so oppressive, and the masters, generally 
residing upon the plantations, have liked to show their 
wealth by great numbers of household servants. On the 
plantations, the slaves, if not ill treated, are, whatever the 
cultivation, ill lodged and poorly clad. Their houses are 
often mere huts, open to the rain and wind, furnished with 
scarcely as much skill as those of a savage ; and their food 
is as poor as their dwellings, — rice, fish, bacon, and such 
things as would satisfy the cravings of hunger alone. The 
slaves can be punished for not obeying the caprices of their 
masters, or for breaking the regulations of the police. Al- 
though cruelty is interdicted, and the master is amenable 
for the life of his slave, all travellers speak of the cruelty of 
many of the masters ; and what redress can a slave expect 
in a court where the judges are his masters, and where his 
word is not taken ? 

No master dares, if he would, instruct his slaves. All 
union among them is expressly forbidden, and they are 
watched in the closest manner. Accustomed to such arbi- 
trary acts, is it possible that the manners of the masters 
should be mild and agreeable ? On the contrary, Jefferson 
mentions the violence of the passions of the Southerners. 
Quarrels are frequent on the slightest provocation, and are 
appeased only by a duel ; and the dirk, says Fearon, is an 
inseparable companion to all classes. Color, rather than 
virtue, distinguishes men ; and women, even of doubtful 

26 



194 SLAVERY. 

reputation, possess from such a distinction a false eleva- 
tion. 

But, fortunately for the slave, some circumstances mo- 
dify slavery in America more than in other countries. In 
the first place, sugar is not largely cultivated, and other 
kinds of agricultural produce require less labor; as the 
slave cultivators of corn in Poland and Russia are better 
nourished than those in other countries who cultivate 
rice, and the slave keepers of the flocks in Arabia come 
more nearly to the level of the master. Secondly, in 
America, the master lives among his slaves, and takes a 
pride in his house-servants ; and true attachments are often 
formed between master and slave. Thirdly, slavery is con- 
stantly modified by the restraining influence of the Free 
States, and of free Christian nations. 

The history of slavery in the French colonies is the coun- 
terpart of that of other nations ; but it has, if possible, been 
more cruel, the plantations having been principally sugar 
plantations. It is sufficient to state, that the annual dimi- 
nution of the slave population under the French regime has 
been one and a half per cent ; and, in the Island of Trinidad, 
three and two-fifths ; while, according to Raynal, the annual 
diminution in all tlie colonies, taken together, amounts to 
five per cent. 

The Spanish colonies of America, in which slavery has 
existed, have had some peculiar adrantages. Sugar is less 
cultivated : and, as the government allows little foreign 
trade, the labors of the slave are of small value ; so that 
they are rather a burden than an advantage, and the master 
is frequently glad to free them. Indeed, absolute necessity 
often makes the proud and idle Spaniard industrious. But 
here, as elsewhere, slavery, by creating a false distinction 



SLAVERY. 



195 



of color, has the effect of making the master arrogant : 
for, naturally fond of titles, the Spaniard takes credit to 
himself, first, that he is better than the native ; and, 
secondly, better than the Ethiopian. On the whole, how- 
ever, it must be confessed, that among the Spaniards slavery 
exists in its mildest form ; and the bad laws of the go- 
vernment, by prohibiting trade and producing a general 
inaction, have done more for the slaves than all the jour- 
nals, the sermons, and the philanthropy of the French and 
Dutch colonists. 

But we naturally ask the question, What influence has 
slavery on liberty among the masters? It makes the 
masters despotic, idle, proud, and overbearing, — an effect 
which, in the Southern States of North America, re-acts 
on the other States. How can men have true ideas of 
liberty, when they regard a large portion of the population 
with eyes of suspicion, and are constantly making laws 
to defend themselves from the dreaded freedom of their 
slaves? Slavery, in modern times, has been less perni- 
cious to liberty than among the ancients, inasmuch as the 
slaves have been generally of a certain color, and known 
when seen. Were it not so, how soon should we see re- 
enacted the story of Virginia ! — a free white woman claimed 
as a slave. For the slave, there is little real hope of free- 
dom ; and, when free, he cannot live in peace among a 
slave population. But the most evident effect of slavery in 
the South of the United States is the non-existence of an 
intermediate class of artisans between the master and slave. 
The splendid houses of the planters stand side by side with 
low, dirty cabins; and nothing replaces the smiling yet 
humble villages of the Northern and Middle States. "The 
slaves could laugh in their chains," says Francis Hall, " if 



196 



SLAVERY. 



they only considered how desolate, how hideous, slavery 
has made the country." 

The influence of slavery on production, and the increase 
and distribution of riches, is of evident importance to 
the slaveholder. From general facts, three consequences 
may be deduced as resulting from slavery. First, that sla-' 
very is opposed to the accumulation of capital ; for what 
object has the slave in accumulating property for his mas- 
ter ? and what surplus is likely to be raised by the blows of 
the whip ? Secondly, slavery is an obstacle to every inven- 
tion and discovery adapted to facilitate labor ; for the mas- 
ter despises labor, and of course has little knowledge of 
material objects. Thirdly, slavery is an obstacle to every 
art which demands intelligence ; for the slave labors only 
with his physical organs. 



P O E T H Y. 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



There came no pealing trumpet ; 

No banner borne on high ; 
No clanging drum or cymbal, 

That stirred the air and sky. 

They strewed no palms by the wayside ; 

There was no listening throng 
To sing glad songs of triumph, 

With voices deep and strong. 

No censer there was wreathing, 
With dim and perfumed shrouds. 

Around the holy Stranger, 
In soft and purple clouds. 

And kings still bore the sceptre, 

Yet bowed not lowly down 
Before the holy Son of God, 

With his immortal crown. 



200 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

In lowliness, forgotten, 

A manger for his bed, 
On his young mother's bosom 

The Saviour laid his head. 

And save the thrilling music 
Of harp-strings struck above 

By the cherubim of heaven. 
Around the throne of Love, — 

And save the starry beacon. 
That shone in light on high. 

There was no word to welcome him. 
The Son of earth and sky. 

Thou Star of glory, lead us ; 

Thou Music, deep and sweet, — 
Lead "us unto the manger ; 

Lead us to Jesus' feet ! 

Dec. 25, 1840. 



201 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 



The first discoverers of America believed that there was a fountain in Florida 
which possessed the miraculous power of restoring youth to the aged. 



We are travelling on to the Fountain of Youth : 

Yet, brothers, stay awhile. 
And dream once more of our sunny land. 

Where the laughing vineyards smile : 
Then our steps we'll speed, though weary and faint, 

To the dim and distant shore ; 
Where we deem that the clouds of sorrow and grief 

Will darken our eyes no more. 

For they tell us, that there, in that radiant land, 

That beautiful land of dreams, % 

The summer and sunshine do never pass 

From the blue and silvery streams : 
And a dim and strange mysterious strength 

On the sparkling rills has lain ; 
For the spirit of God has breathed on the waves, 

And they bring us our youth again. 

Then speed, let us speed, to the glorious strand, 

Where the gems lie thick like dew ; 
And bathe in the fount and the murmuring rills, 

That bring us our youth anew : 

26 



202 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

For our life is a cold and a weary thing 

In this mansion-house of woe ; 
But pain will flee on the emerald banks, 

Where the lulling waters flow. 

But they never found the Fountain of Youth 

On that lonely and lovely shore, 
And their wasted joys and their rifled gems 

Came back to their souls no more ; 
Yet they found a stream of enduring strength, 

Whose beauty can never fade, 
More bright than the rivers of light that flow 

In the wilderness gloom and shade. 

For their faith grew firm, and their trust more deep, 

In the spirit of God above ; 
And their hearts were filled with a holier hope, 

A higher and purer love. 
Their souls were strong, for they knew that their tears 

Had not been given in vain ; 
And they found- the Fountain of Youth on high, 

In the Eden Land, again. 

April 3, 1841. 



203 



THE DEATH OF MANSFIELD. 



" When Mansfield saw that death was inevitable, he called for his armor, which 
he girded on. He then placed his helmet on his head, grasped his sword in his 
hand, and, standing erect between two of his comrades, he died as he had lived, — a 
soldier." -^*A *if Wallenstein. 



" Ho ! bring me mine armor, — haste ! 
For my life-blood ebbs away ; 
Bind the greaves on ! still would I dream 

Of the battle's clang and fray : 
Now could I scorn the sun in its pride ; — 
Look I not glorious ? Quick ! by my side ! 

Hirelings ! ho, quicker to your task ! 

I've said I might not wait ; 
Bring me my shield and falchion broad, 

And iron mail of state : 
Now will I meet Death cheerily, — see ! 
Think' st thou he's a warrior bolder than me ? 

And now the plume I was wont to wear, 
When the clouds were thick on high ! 

And my banner fair — ho ! let it wave 
Free in the clear blue sky ! 

How the foemen's armor round me shines ! 

Ah ! — said you so ? — see, the light declines ! 



204 THE DEATH OF MANSFIELD. 

Yet again, my sword and trusty spear ! 

I'll fight this battle well : 
They count the slain of heroes bold ; 

But mine they shall not tell. 
Death ! thou hast won not a tear or sigh : 
So, comrades ! — so should a warrior die ! " 

Even thus his star went down : 

'Mid the clanging trumpets' blore, 
The clash of swords, and the prance of steeds, 

He drew to the deathless shore. 
Where the songs of Peace through the arches swell 
" After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." 



1841. 



205 



THE DEATH OF MIRABBAU. 



It is related of Mirabeau, that, when the hour of death drew nigh, he said, 
" Give me flowers; let me have essences; arrange my dress; let me have music; 
and close my eyes amid harmony. Why should a man be surrounded with the 
grave Ijefore his timeV " 



Ye are all here, and yet my heart 

Would bear its strife alone, 
And leave its kingdom, as a king 

Might vanish from his throne, 
Rather than bear this sullen gloom, 
And the stern darkness in the room. 

I've told you that I would not die ! 

I have not drunk my fill 
Of mortal power and glorious fame, — 

Once more, I say, be still ! 
For thus the slave goes down to rest, 

While chains are clanking round his breast. 

Lift ye the curtains from my couch. 

And let the glad sun pour 
His burning rays upon my dim 

And failing eyes once more, 
As in creation's dawn he woke : 
Death may be dazzled from his stroke. 



206 THE DEATH OF MIRABEAU. 

And gather flowerets from the brink 

Of rivers hid from sight: 
Perchance their fragrance in my heart 

May wake the old delight; 
And they may charm away my lot, 
That I must die and be forgot. 

Bring me sweet harps that lily hands 
Shall touch with gentle strength, 

While angel voices breathe that life 
Hath everlasting length. 

Till in the harmony my heart 

May lose its memory, and depart. 

And fold around my wasted frame 
Rich robes of Tyrian dye, 

That I have worn on festal nights. 
When lovely forms were nigh ; 

And on my breast let diamonds blaze : 

Death shall not come to close my days ! 

Ay, ye have done your part full well ; 

And yet this listless pain 
No perfumed flower may waft away. 

Nor cool my fevered brain : 
Songs cannot give me life and breath : 
Alas ! who ever cheated Death ? 



1841. 



207 



THE REQUEST. 



It is well known, that sotne of those whom the convulsions of the French Revo- 
lution released from prison, after having been long incarcerated, soon returned, and 
entreated to be restored to their old prison-home. 



They are all changed, the friends I left 

When life's young pulse beat high : 
They met me with a tottering step 

And with a darkened eye, 
And asked me, while their homes I sought, 

Wherefore mine own I left; 
Still looking on me with a smile, 

And wondering why I wept. 
They cared not for my grief and pain : 
Oh, give me back my cell again ! 

They are all changed : my mother sleeps 

Within her quiet grave. 
There where the trees I set when young 

In aged beauty wave ; 
And by the door my brothers sat, 

Old men they were like me, 
And passed their hands across their brows, 

And thought who I might be, — 
While still they thought and looked in vain : 
Oh, give me back my cell again ! 



208 THE REQUEST. 

My sister, whom I left a girl 

Arrayed in beauty's light, 
Whose face had been my star of hope 

Through all my prison's night, — 
She met me with an altered smile, 

With eyes serene and cold ; 
And low she murmured, with a sigh. 

That I had grown so old ! — 
So old ! though she had changed the same : 
Oh, give me back my cell again ! 

They are all changed : the streams I heard 

Run singing from their source. 
Whose music lingered in my dreams, 

Seem sluggish in their course ; 
The skies are gray, and 'neath the trees 

The shade hath darker grown ; 
While faces meet me in the way, 

That I have never known ; — 
They call me by a stranger's name : 
Oh, give me back my cell again ! 

For now my lonely prison-walls 

Alone, amid my grief. 
Are left companions for my sighs 

And murmurs for relief: 
Oh, would that they could bring once more. 

With their familiar view. 
The hopes I cherished through my tears. 

Their gloom cannot renew ! 
Home lingers round their rusty chain : 
Oh, give me back my cell again ! 

1841. 



209 



THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 



There had been none to wipe his brow, 

In his last hours of pain, 
To watch and aid his feverish wants, — 

No voice of soothing strain ; 
Not one who turned aside to weep. 
Or smiled in tears upon his sleep ; — 

Not one, when conscience oft awoke, 
And struggled with his soul, 

To still its throbbings and its fears 
With mercy's sweet control ; 

Even in dying, none to pray, 

When the freed spirit passed away. 

And hirelings gazed with tearless eyes, 
From whence all grief had flown. 

Upon the worn robe of a soul 
Immortal as their own ; 

And sighed not, as they laid his frame 

In the rude boards without a name. 

27 



210 THE pauper's funeral. 

They bore him to his grave alone : 

The funeral bell tolled on 
Wearily, so it seemed, and ceased 

Ere half the way was won ; 
And, though 'twas noonday, none gave heed 
How their steps hurried through the mead. 

E'en as they laid him down to rest. 
They thought that he was poor, 

And gave him room in barren ground, 
Lonely, for evermore ; 

And lightly spoke, lightly replied : 

But no voice said, " A friend has died." 

Oh ! little are the sorrows told 
That touch the poor man's heart, 

Bearing through life a weary load, — 
A sad and cheerless part ; 

Hoping for death alone, no more : 

Good God ! have mercy on the poor I 



1841. 



211 



M A K A B A. 



" In the course of my remarks, Makaba caught the startling sound of a Resurrec- 
tion. 'What,' he exclaimed with astonishment, — ' what are these words about? 
The Dead, the Dead, arise ! I have slain my thousands, and shall they arise V ' " 



" The Dead arise ! why say ye so ? 

Shall all men wake from sleep, — 
Those on whose death I loved to look, 

And those I taught to weep ? 
And will my slumbering father rise ? " 

" Even he," the Preacher said, 
" When the last trump of God sliall sound, 

And summon forth the dead." 

" Those who have died on distant shores. 

In silent darkness slain ; 
And those by wild hyenas torn, 

Left dying on the plain ; 
Those who were swallowed in the waves. 

In ages long gone by, 
Whose struggling gasp no ear had heard, 

Unseen by mortal eye ; — 

" And those left bleaching on the sands, 

Unwashed by falling rain, — 
Their cold bones crumbling on the ground. 

Living and lost in vain ; 



212 M A K A B A. 

Those whom the winds have borne, — shall they 

Arise by fount and lake ? " 
The Preacher lifted up his voice, 

" The Dead shall all awake." 

" All those who were my father's curse ; 

Those his strong arm withstood. 
Yet strove in vain, as reeds that bend 

Before the mighty flood ? 
Come here, ye wise men ! — speak : wlio dwells 

So potent in the skies ? 
I tell ye that they cannot wake : 

The Dead cannot arise." 

The old chief raised his stalwart arm, 

And shook his blood-stained spear. 
And with a voice like stormy winds 

He shouted, " Stranger, hear ! 
I've slain my thousands ; and shall they, 

Mine enemies^ arise ? " 
" They, too," the Preacher bowed and wept, 

" Shall meet thee in the skies." 



213 



THE BEACON. 



Written for a Fair, held for the benefit of the Seaman's Home, Portsmouth. 



She hath spread her sails abroad, 
The good ship, to the breeze, 
As the penguin spreads her wings 
On the brink of summer seas : 
She hath weighed her anchor well ; 
And she dasheth on her way. 
As an eagle through the air, 
Or a sword-shark for its prey. 

But the foaming waves grow dark : 
They are rocking to and fro, 
Like a host of wavering men, 
When beaten by the foe. 
And the pale moon hides her light ; 
And the thunder rumbles low. 
With a dull and muttering sound. 
To the shrieking storm below. 

Aha ! how the sea-birds scream. 
That flit through the angry heaven ! 
And the heavy clouds, afar. 
By the raging winds are driven ! 



214 



THE BEACON. 

Aha ! how the lightning glares, 
Through the boiling foam and spray. 
On the wreck of the goodly ship, 
With her tall masts borne away ! 

Our Father in heaven above ! 
Oh ! now to thy child appear ; 
For wild is the Sailor's dread, 
And terrible is his fear. 
He prays, — when, lo ! o'er the wave, 
Like the gentle morning star. 
With a radiance still and calm, 
Shines the Beacon Light afar. 

So to the Sailor's heart. 
On life's tempestuous sea, 
Hath the friendly " Seaman's Home " 
Shone far o'er the distant lea, 
Through fierce temptation's storm, 
And through the dreary night. 
With the pure and heavenly beams 
Of the saving Beacon Light. 



215 



THE VISION. 



Beyond were trackless oceans ; 

Beside me spread a plain, 
Beneath whose deathless verdure 

The men of yore had lain. 
A^nd all was still and silent : 

There was no breath or sound, 
To break the holy slumber 

Of those beneath the ground, — 

When, lo ! within the chambers. 

The cloud-home of the west, 
I saw a band . of angels 

Upon their pinions rest : 
And through the vaults of heaven, 

Their thrilling music rang ; 
And earth sent back the echo, — 

The songs the spirits sang. 

Then suddenly, beside me. 
The pure and holy dead 

Uprose from their deep slumber. 
Beneath their vernal bed. 



216 THE VISION. 

And joined unto the chorus 
The blessed angels sang : 

The wide earth shook and trembled, 
As round their music rang. 

" All glory in the highest ! 

All glory in the sky ! " — 
So sang they with the spirits, — 

" To Sire and Son on high ! " 
And I bowed down and trembled 

At that which I had heard ; 
And lowly there I whispered, 

" The dead, too, praise the Lord." 

1841. 



217 



ON RECEIVING CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 



I THANK thee for thy gift, my friend ; 

And I will seek, for thee, 
To make each holy thought my own, — 

Each gem that there may be. 

And now I know that every dream, 
Which from its lines may spring. 

Will tell me how our anxious hearts 
To other spirits cling. 

And I will bless thee while I read. 
And wish that thou wert nigh : 

Oh that my home were everywhere 
Beneath the broad, blue sky ! 

The poet lives in every heart ; 

His voice is all around ; 
The plains of earth, the realms of hope. 

He passeth with a l)ound. 

I thank thee for thy gift, my friend ; 

But more than all above, 
I thank thee for a better thing, — 

The token of thy love. 

July, 1841. 

28 



♦ 



•ihs 



"FEAR NOT." 



I WILL not fear, — I will not fear : 

For He is by my side ; 
In pastures fair he leacletli me, — 

In pastures green and wide ; 
And hy the rivers calm and clear, 

And wliere bright waters roll : 
I will not fear, — I will not fear ; 

His strength is in my soul. 

He watcheth me amid the storm, 

And on the raging sea ; 
His guidance is my steadfast hope, 

When earthly hopes may flee. 
I weep no more for grief or woe, 

And I will fear no ill : 
He loveth me, he feedeth me ; 

My riod is with me still. 



184L 



219 



MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES. 



She brought him to the river's bank ; 

She laid him by the tide ; 
She looked into his sunny eyes ; — 

How pleasantly he smiled ! 

She placed him 'mid the fanning leaves, 
And thought to shade his face ; 

And bowed them down, though bending still 
In beauty and in grace. 

Poor child ! he knew not of her dread ; 

He knew not of her fear ; 
He dreamed not of that bitter grief, — 

The grief that sheds no tear. 

She placed her hands upon his brow, — 
How cold they were, like clay ! 

And then she thought of Carmel's hills 
And Jordan, far away ! 

She looked upon the tiny ark ; 

She gazed adown the tide ; 
And then unto her fathers' God 

In agony she cried. 



220 MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES. 

Poor child ! he knew not of her prayer ; 

He knew not of her fear : 
But laughingly he watched the waves 

And dancing waters near. 

She kissed his brow, — how pale her own ! 

Her eyes were wild with grief: 
She looked above, she looked around. 

And hoped to find relief. 

And once again, and yet again, 

She parted from the shore : 
How grieved the Mother's heart to leave. 

And see her child no more ! 

But there was One of mighty strength. 

Of perfect power to save, — 
He looked upon the Mother's woe ; 

He looked upon the wave. 

Trust on, trust on ! amid the waves. 
Though high the billows heave. 

The faithful and the true of heart 
Our God will never leave. 

June, 1841. 



221 



HOPE ON. 



Has thy plume been soiled, and clouded thine eye, 
While the glancing arrows around thee fly ? 
Are thy footsteps faint in the strife and fray, 
Though the fight is yet in the noon of day ? 
Warrior, awake, and arouse once more ! 
Hope on, hope on, until life is o'er ! 

Is thy heart bowed down with a bitter woe ? 

Thine anchors lost in the depths below ? 

No friend by thy side, and no voice of good cheer, 

To give thee strength in the hour of thy fear ? 

Mariner ! faint not ; a star is on high : 

Hope on, hope an ! for thy God is still nigh. 

Are thy nerves unsheathed, Poet ! and worn. 
As on thou art urged to a far-distant bourn ? 
Thou hast worlds of glory unseen within, 
Though the shadows around are darkened with sin ; 
And the kingdom of love beyond thee lies : 
Hope on ! for thy songs are sung for the skies. 

Oct. 2, 1841. 



222 



ON THE DEATH OF 



MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON. 



Sleep on, sleep on ! thy jonrney's done 

In that pure spirit-land, — 
We will not say thou wert too young 

To join the angel-band : 
Thou who didst learn the songs so well 

That swell through heaven's dome, 
Thou hast not lost, but found for aye, 

A more enduring home. 

Thy spring was blended witli tlie hopes 

That bloom within the sky, — 
Those rainbow-colored hopes, not born, 

Like those of earth, to die. 
And in thy heart there was a fount. 

Holy, from streams unsealed : 
How know we of the glorious things 

To thy young soul revealed ? 

There was no weary, yearning waste ; 

No void of life unfilled ; 
No grief within thy youthful heart ; 

No storm that was not stilled : 



MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON. 223 

But with thy sister-spirit's hand 

Thy lyre on earth was strung : 
A glorious thing it was for thee 

To die so pure and young ; — 

A glorious thing, amid the spring, 

Unwasted by the cares 
That wear this mortal life away, 

To join the holy prayers 
Of those before the throne of God ; — 

Who would not die like thee 
So gifted, and thus early called 

To know eternity ! 

No more thy words shall thrill our hearts. 

Linked with thy sister-star ; 
But from thy grave, so like a shrine, 

A light shall shine afar, 
To guide us with a holier strength 

To walk as thou hast trod : 
Oh ! well we know no hope is vain, — 

No thought that leads to God. 

June IS, 1841. 



224 



THE MEETING OF THE DEPARTED. 



" How will they meet us, angel blest, 
They who on earth were ours ; 
A beauty and a loveliness 
Amid life's weary hours ; — 

Who mingled in our holiest prayers, 

In sorrow with us knelt. 
Rejoiced with us in sympathy, 

And with our trials felt ? 

How will they meet us ? " so I asked 

In trembling and in fear ; 
When Faith, with fervent tones, replied. 

In accents deep and clear, — 

" E'en as they loved thee : so, at rest 
Secure from sin and pain. 
Their tender care and holy love 
Live here and there the same ; — 

Save that more calm, and troubled not 

By fear of mortal change, 
Their spirits' love, serenely pure. 

No trial can estrange. 



THE MEETIN(4 OF THE DEPARTED. 2'2 



ZZ) 



Unshadowed by the veil of time, 
More close, more perfect yet, 

In gentle union with your heart, 
They blend without regret. 

And as your efforts equal theirs. 
For progress upward borne. 

Equal in efforts, though in strength 
Of angel-triumphs shorn, — 

So sanctified, so purified, 

Your meeting there shall be. 

Untold rejoicing, full of peace, 
E'en for eternity." 

I listened, and my heart grew calm ; 

And strength anew was given ; 
And patience to sustain my part. 

Thus loved and watched by Heaven. 



August, 1842. 



29 



226 



SEEING A PAINTING OF TITIAN'S DAUGHTER. 



Thou'rt beautiful, most beautiful, blessed child of 

love ! 
And thine eyes are beaming with the light and softness 

of the dove ; 
With the radiance of the morning stars, veiled in their 

vestal robe. 
That breathe within our beating hearts strange thoughts 

we cannot probe. 

And a childish look of wild delight is glancing o'er thy 

face. 
As half beseeching for our praise, half taking it with 

grace ; 
Yet mingled with no human fear, no quivering wish witli- 

in,— 
Since earth, our earth, is bright to those whose hearts are 

free from sin. 

Thou, Titian's daughter ! even now, I thought in truth 
his dreams, 

The inward harmony and light from higher fountain- 
streams. 



A PAINTING OF TITIAN's DAUGHTER. 227 

Were visible upon thy face and in thy speaking eyes, — 
An outward impress of the soul, whose home was in the 

skies. 

Spirit of beauty ! if the forms that human hands have 
made 

So thrill on every quivering pulse, as with a charm ar- 
rayed. 

How will the splendor of God's work, the perfect, glo- 
rious whole. 

Burst, when the veil is rent away, upon thy wondering 
soul ! 

August, 1842. 



The Poetry that follows was written after the year 1851 ; but, 
as there were no dates annexed to the manuscripts, the exact time 
of their composition is not known. The greater part were doubtless 
composed during the last two or three years of the author's life. 



229 



MUSIC. 



SWEETEST Music ! heaven-descended art ! 
The world-wide language of the feeling heart ! 
Pale Sorrow hears the sympathetic strain, 
And, while she listens, half forgets her pain ; 
And Joy ecstatic, too, in Music's sighs 
Subdues her laughter, and grows calmly wise. 
To every fancy, lo ! she holds the key ; 
And Wisdom's self is told in harmony. 
greatest master, who so wisely sings ! 
He can repeat his soul upon the strings ; 
And he, who hears the numbers softly float. 
With heart respondent listens to each note, - — 
Feels all he feels of either joy or pain. 
With kindred passion answering all his flame. 
Such pleasure once was mine ; for once I heard 
A strain which all my inmost spirit stirred : 
The theme was chosen well for sound or song. 
And, chosen thus, was studied well and long, — 
Of some great war, for a great victory, — - 
Perchance some mighty nation's fearful cry 
Calling on God amid the battle's din ; 
Or the still struggle of a soul within. 
Soft he began in liquid harmony ; 
Now pausing in forgetful melody ; 



230 MUSIC. 

Now swelling like the freighted winds of June ; 

Now like the waterfall's low drooping tune ; 

And often with a fading, dying note, 

As echoes, sweetened by the distance, float ; 

Until, at length, the soft according strain 

Won all the crowd he had not thought to gain. 

Yet still he often paused in sweet delays. 

As one who doubts of censure or of praise ; 

Till as the jocund lark, at morning light, 

In flying gathers strength for higher flight, 

So he increased his tones, and on the soul 

Let the full tide of rapturous music roll. 

As breaks upon some rock-bound shore the sea, 

So swelling were his notes, so deep and free ; 

Nor yet at once exhausted all his store, 

But, giving, left behind a harvest more. 

To cherish expectation, and to break 

The spell of apathy not yet awake. 

Then, with a slow, distinct, majestic tread. 

His music, like some beauteous lake outspread. 

Where every note to each responsive rings, 

The kingly ])rinces in a train of kings ; 

Till as the victor moves across the plain. 

When foes and conquered allies swell his train, 

The rear advances, hurrying, pressing on. 

While idle groups show how the field was won : 

So, singing, on his theme he oft delayed. 

And for some episode delightful staid. 

Till the mute multitude, attendant long. 

With shouts confessed him as the lord of song. 



2:31 



M R N I N G. 



Morning awakes from peaceful sleep, 
And springs from Night's embrace, 

While all her breathing tresses lie 
Dishevelled round her face. 

In youthful graces newly clad, 

She stands in modest wise, 
Which neither hides nor seeks to show 

Beauty without disguise ; — 

While, in attendance on her will, 
The Zephyrs round her curl ; 
And the light-footed Dews, who hang 
Each drooping leaf with pearl. 

And the meek herald of her march 
Shines hovering o'er the hills ; 

While everywhere, from bud and flower 
An odorous sweet distils. 

And e'en the clouds beneath her smile, 
Where kindling beauties are ; 

In conscious glory seem to glow, 
And lioht liei- fame afar. 



232 M O U N I N G. 

Reflecting all her charms, the streams, 
Borne to their borders, seem 

To leap rejoicing, as they seek 
To meet her o'er the green ; — 

When, with a song for marriage feasts, 
Some bird springs from its nest, 

On wings that, flying, gather strength 
To buoy her heaving breast ; — 

When, catching up the joyous note. 

Ere half its force is spent. 
In quick succession every grove 

With joyous songs is rent. 

And from the birds the whispering winds 

The answering chorus take, 
And, mingling with the rippling streams. 

In one sweet anthem break ; — 

While from the hills the steaming smoke. 

And vapors from the vale, 
Rise, — like a cloud of incense, rise, — 

And bid the Morning hail. 

And maids come singing, with their pails. 
Blithe welcomes to the Morn ; 

And all around the hills resound 
With Ciianticleer's rude horn. 

The cotter starts, and thinks the day 
Already leaves the East : 



MORNING. 233 

And hurries, whistling, to his flocks 
And herds, from sleep released. 

Yet, bent npon his task, perchance 

He finds a listening ear, 
To tell the. story of his hopes, 

And mark his cottage near ; — 

While in tlie door his children stand. 

And watch his steps abroad, 
And shyly from their eager eyes 

The morning brightness guard, — 

Until, on pastoral talk intent, 

He sees, with late surprise, 
The fiery day unto the morn 

Succeeding in the skies. 



30 



234 



STANZA S. 



I SAID that I would love no more ; but could I prove un- 
true, 

When thy dear presence every hour awoke my love 
anew ? 

As well beneath the master's touch the lute-string might 
be still ; 

As well the panting, bleeding hart forsake the friendly 
rill. 

If thou couldst be less wise and good, and less my praises 
move. 

Or leave me in my wretchedness, then I might cease to 
love. 

I said that I would love no more : but what is time or 

space, 
When all that's beautiful and good recalls to me thy 

face ; 
When, in admiring others, I gave feeble praise to thee, 
And, praising thee, all others seemed most honored tbeu 

to be ? 
But if thou canst from Memory's leaves the sacred words 

remove. 
And make the evil look like good, then might I cease to 

love. 



•i;i3 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



She was the miller's daughter, 

A maid not over fair, 
And rather to be loved, than praised 

As many maidens are : 
She had such pretty, witching ways, 

So artless was her guile. 
That often we began to chide, 

And ended with a smile. ' 

We all rejoiced to hear her step, — 

Rejoiced, we scarce knew why : 
Perchance she had so quick a heart 

To feel another's sigh ; 
Or rather that such natural joy 

Was laughing from her eyes ; 
As even the sad are glad to see 

The lark at morning rise. 

I saw her idling by the mill 
When summer days had fled. 

And, lingering still, the sunset seemed 
To brighten round her head ; 



236 THE miller's daughter. 

And, as the evening shadows fell, 

I heard the miller scold, 
As if he liked her sweet excuse, . 

For some strange story told. 

She was a simple, honest maid, 

So free from care, that I 
Thought like the wildflower she could thrive. 

And blossom endlessly : 
But, ah ! the wildflower in the storm 

May fade, too early dead ; 
And she, alas ! was loved, and left, — 

Left for another maid. 

I saw her with the miller sit. 

But in the moonlit air, 
So pale, so calm, that, were she dead. 

She cotild not be more fair. 
Her mother died when she was born, 

They said, and then I smiled ; 
For rarely mother, dying thus, 

Is long: without her child. 



2:37 



NUPTIAL SONG. 



My silken hood is ready, mother, 

And ready my snow-white gown : 
This morn I have tied the ribbon, mother. 

That shall hang my side adown. 
And he brought me a rose all wet with the dew. 

To wear in these curls of mine ; 
And he promised me, sure, a string of beads 

As rich and as rare as thine. 
But he whispered most of a golden ring. 

Of the richest and rarest ore ; 
And I'll put on my new shoes now, mother. 

And sit at the old church-door. 
The spring-time cometh and goeth, mother ; 

But never more, I trow. 
Will you watch how my cloth grows white, mother. 

On the lingering patch of snow. 
And in the long, bright days of Fall, mother, 

Never more will hand of mine 
Turn your whining wheel to the autumn winds, 

While my foot and voice keep time. 
But you will be proud of my web, mother. 

When you see how fine it is made. 
And remember all your wearisome pains. 

And think you are well repaid. 



238 NUPTIAL SONG. 

And I shall not come in the eve, mother, 

With my frothing milking-pail ; 
But the feathery flock that trooped at my call 

You will watch for without fail. 
And the robin that builds on yonder bough, 

You will see that he is not killed : 
He builds for himself, but he never cares 

To see how his young ones build ! 
For mine own house I shall toil, mother ; 

But, oh ! in the clover bloom. 
You will think the self-same wind, mother, 

Wafts to me the same perfume. 
Two homes will be glad for you, mother. 

Two hearths at set of sun : 
I shall see the light of yours, mother, 

When I sit by mine alone. 
But, see ! the church-door openeth wider ; 

Down the way the maidens steal ; 
And, oh ! my heart it is beating louder 

Than the church-bell, by a deal. 
Do you think the lover I crossed, mother. 

Will be there to hear my troth ? 
If he knows how I laughed at his foolish love. 

Do you think he will now be wroth ? 
But I never shall be ready, mother : 

Oh ! what shall I do or say ? 
But why do you stand and weep so, mother ? 

For this is my wedding-day I 



239 



THE SOLDIER. 



Oh ! sleep is no more like death than the morning 

Is like the aurora in northern climes dawning : 

In sleep, the soft breathing, the blush on the cheek, 

The dreamy emotions of the waking soul speak ; 

As some token at night, though no waker arovise, 

Shows the master in silence keeps watch o'er the house. 

But in death — oh ! this fair maid is sleeping. 
While Innocence, blushing, the sweet watch is keeping ; 
And one cheek is hid on the breast of her lover. 
While her waving hair hides half the flush of the other, 
And her arm clasps his neck, — her arm soft and pearly : 
In' the sunset all bright, why sleeps she so early ? 

By the envious scarf his face now is hidden, 

For the evening winds covered it o'er all unbidden ; 

But the tender embrace should be sweeter and closer : 

Ah ! this is no sleep, for in sleep he forgets her, — 

Now his arms lying listless, to hers unreplying : 

Oh, see how the red blood the greensward is dyeing ! 

Sore wounded in battle, he crept to the river, 
Where vainly he suffered, his strength gone for ever : 



•2-tO 



THE SOLDIER. 



But true love hath found him ; and there, softly stooping 
To see if his heart beat, her ear lowly drooping : 
Now the night-dew is falling, the twilight is fading : 
Her arm round his neck, oh! why is she waiting? 

In the sunset the river laughs blushing and flowing ; 
The winds, as if homesick, are sighing and blowing ; 
The violets are drooping, the green trees are swinging ', 
But the birds are too full of their joy to be singing : 
Earth and air seem to whisper, " Oh ! this sure is sleep- 
ing ; " 
And night draws a marriage-veil over their dreaming. 



241 



LOVE FLIES. 



Love flies, Love flies ! 
Round his throat is floating all his golden hair ; 
On each dimpled shoulder snowy wings there are : 
While his empty quiver down his back is hung, 
On his arm he beareth forth his bow unstrung ; 
While he looketh backward, laughing from his eyes, 

" Love flies, Love flies ! " 



All the flowers are drooping, birds in silence fly. 
And the brutes, neglected, raise a piteous cry ; 
While the winds of Autumn o'er the meadows mourn, 
And the gathering darkness shows the coming storm ; 
And lone Echo answers, — answers and replies, 
" Love flies. Love flies ! " 



Idly falls the hammer, idly turns the wheel, 
And the careless spinner often drops her reel : 
Hushed the song and whistle, hushed the joking strain 
Hymen, pale and fainting, fans a flickering flame ; 
While sad Faith, attending, languishes, and sighs, 
" Love flies. Love flies ! " 

31 



242 LOVE FLIES. , 

" Hush ! " cries Love, half pouting, " if I fly before, 
I would wait you mortals on a better shore : 
Always ye reproach me, — now I will return, 
All re-armed to plague you, till your planet burn : 
Last to leave, oh ! gladly then you'll raise your cries, 
'• Love flies. Love flies ! ' " 



243 



TO JESSIE. 



" Ah, Jessie dear ! " I rashly asked, 
" Since thou canst not return my love, 

Let pity shed some fragrant tears 
Upon the woes I weeping prove ; 

But, ah ! thy tears, like falling dew, 

Refresh thy charms, my ginef renew." 

Ah, Jessie dear ! I rashly asked, — 

" Since thou canst not return my love, 

Let some kind words by pity said 

The burning from my heart remove ; " — 

For, oh ! what peace could pity bring. 

Which steals love's sweetness and its sting ? 

But, Jessie dear ! thy innocence 

Is wiser far than others' arts ; 
And, loving thee, still would I sigh, 

Rather than reign in other hearts : 
For still my heart, by thee possessed, 
Owns what thou wilt as always best. 



244 



THE PLOUGHMAN'S DAUGHTER. 



" The ploughman's merry daughter, 

What hair hath she, I pray ? " 
I asked two lusty farmers 

Who lingered by the way. 
" Ah ! brown," one answered gayly, 

" And soft as fleece e'er spun." 
"Nay, golden," sighed the other; 

" For I've seen it in the sun." 

" What eyes hath she, good people ? " 

One answered, " Tender blue, 
And softer than the iris 

When wet with morning dew." 
" Nay, sharper," cried the other. 

When scarce the first had done, 
"• Than my sickle in the meadows 

Beneath an August sun." 

" And speaks she fair, good people ? " 
" Oh ! sweet," the elder said, 

" Like soft winds o'er the clover." 
But low the younger plead. 



THE ploughman's daughtp:r. 245 

" Nay, say her cold voice ringeth 

Clear as the evening bell 
That oft misleads the stranger 

In yonder echoing dell." 

Perplexed, and wanting wisdom, 

I sought beyond the moor, 
Where the ploughman's merry daughter 

Was spinning by the door ; 
Nor knew, 'twixt light and shadow, 

If her hair were brown or gold, 
Nor 'mid the rose and lily 

The faithful color told. 

Too long her eyes I pondered. 

Where true love seemed to lie ; 
Too loud I praised her, hearing 

Her sweet song floating by : 
When quick, in mocking laughter. 

Out rang her merry voice ; 
And, weeping, to the farmers 

1 turned, and made no choice. 



246 



EPITAPH. 



Here, within this silent dell, 

Where the moss is old and hoary, 
Where the turf is green the latest, 
And the Fall leaves fade the fairest. 

Lies a maid of humble story. 
She had loved — ah, common lesson ! — 
Tenderly, and was forgotten ; 
And when, weeping, sleep overcame her, 
Angels suffered none to wake her. 
Oft the brightly dawning morning ; 

Oft the birds, upon the ground, 
Singing softly, — seem to call her 

To the happy life around : 
But the Eve, with dewy fingers, 

Pecks her mould with fragrant sighs ; 
And kind Pity, leaning o'er her, 

Drops a requiem from her eyes ; 
While the violets, blooming, dying, 

Lay their leaves upon her breast, 
As if their true love could bring her 

Healing for a heart distressed. 
Wandering here, perchance, kind stranger. 
Where the Zephyrs, glad to linger. 

Balmy sweetness borrow ; 



EPITAPH. 247 

Where e'en Grief loops up her tresses, — 
Do not sigh or breathe kind wishes, 

That she could share thy morrow : 
But sing dirges softly o'er her, 
Lest impitying Love disturb her 

With a dream of sorrow. 



248 



LOVE, 



LOVE ! sweet love ! — oh ! tell me what is love, 
That all should be so eager for this pain ; 
And what strange madness is there in its joys, 
That e'en the unloved would rather love in vain. 

None are so poor but have some idleness 
Which they can lavish on love's lips and eyes ; 
For e'en the beggar hath his nights in June, 
When he forgets his poverty, yet sighs. 

And in the moonlit, clover-scented air, 
The prince and beggar, in the same soft tone, 
Breathe the same whispers to some listening ear, 
And in another's joys each finds his own. 

And, oh ! what charity is there, sweet Love ! 
That can no error in another find ? 
How darest thou, oh, most courageous Love ! 
Unequal fates and fortunes thus to bind ? 

And yet this human love is but the type 
Of one which can alone all hopes fulfil ; 
For in Love's heaven, most divinely blest. 
All pant for love that's sweeter, holier still. 



249 



SONG 



As rivers often at their source 

In many streams divide, 
Which, swelling to a flood, flow on 

In one unbroken tide ; 
So once my heart had many joys : 

But now each lends its store, 
And all, absorbed in love alone. 

Now waste their wealth no more. 

As from some mountain-lake the streams 

Run various down the steep, 
And, mingling oft with humbler rills, 

In mighty torrents sweep ; 
So with the springs of slighted love 

All other sorrows meet. 
Each gaining bitterness and strength, 

And make my woe complete. 



32 



250 



REPOSE. 



On downy pillows lain, she prays : 

Her soft eyes ope and close again ; 
And, unto her unfinished prayer, 

The angels say the glad " Amen ; " 
While, half-unclasped her languid hands, 

She sleeps with such a gentle art. 
That scarce her heaving limbs betray 

The quiet heaving of her heart ; 
So quick asleep, not hidden quite. 
Her lovely limbs peep to the light 
The envious down would hide from sight. 

Ber golden hair curls round her cap ; 

And, as her rosy lips unclose, 
The easy breathings falter forth. 

Like perfumes loath to leave a rose ; 
And, dimly bright, the lashes seem 

To steal light from her eyes in mirth. 
Or, as some homesick beams, returned 

Unto the suns that gave them birth ; 
While, gathered in her snowy breast, 
Life and the Loves together rest : 
How could they leave so sweet a nest ? 



REPOSE. 251 

The air is sweet ; for dying flowers 

Send their last breath to scenes like this, 
And, sighing, blows the love-sick wind, 

Trembling to meet her with a kiss ; 
While, with a faint and dreamy light, 

The lamp half shows, half hides, her face, 
As night were, by itself illumed. 

Burning to see her lovely face ; 
And worthless Fancy flieth thence. 
Where she lies sleeping with shut sense, 
Like the child-goddess. Innocence. 



252 



LINES WRITTEN FOR AN ALBUM. 



Happy childhood smiles when sleeping ; 

But the man, whate'er his mood, 
As in death, in sleeping weareth 

Looks of mournful quietude : 
But, dear heauty ! mayst thou number 
Childhood's hours of smiling slumber ! 

Childhood dreams sweet dreams of childhood ; 

But the man, whate'er his fate, 
Never dreams of youth returning, 

With the joys of youth elate : 
But, dear beauty ! may thy dreaming 
Bring thy childhood back in seeming ! 



2o:3 



A LEGEND OF BLENHEIM. 



The reckless lord sat 'mid the wassail high, 
And a fierce light flashed from his keen dark eye, 
While his heavy locks fell round his bold, bad face. 
As he lifted the foaming cup from its place ; 
And the old arras shook, as he laughed in jest, 
As if driven aside by the strong north-west. 

Of the wild-boar's h^ad was the rude beaker made : 
Nine times had he quaffed it, nine times unstayed ; 
And the arms on the wall with his shout rang so clear, 
That the wassailers started in rage and in fear ; 
And they laughed then a laugh sharp and hoarse with 

their dread. 
While their terrified glance denied all they said. 

And in fear — none knew why — the night waned apace ; 
Each reveller looked in the opposite face, 
And swore with an oath, that seemed like a groan, 
That the face of his neighbor was pale as his own ; 
When, trembling, they saw a guest at their board : 
For a white lady sat by the bold, bad lord ! 



254 A LEGEND OF BLENHEIM. 

Not a sound had they heard when she came to his 

side ; 
Not a breath could they see move her thin veil aside ; 
Round her shoulders, unbound, flowed her long golden 

hair : 
They saw that her neck and her white arms were bare ; 
And she fixed her keen eye cold and bright on the lord. 
Till it pierced him through, like the point of a sword. 

Then the arras was still, and the torch-light shone clear, 
And the revellers round seemed stiffened with fear : 
Some still raised the glass they had lifted to fill ; 
In the terror of death some seemed to laugh still ; 
And the minstrel was dumb from that hour when the 

maid 
Took the harp from his hand, and mournfully played, — 

" Roland, Roland of Blenheim ! 
Where was noble Ernestine V — 
He whose stern, ferocious soul 
Knew no danger, no control. 
In the battle owned no fear ; 
And whose gentlest passions were 
The race and hunt, till day was spent ; 
Who scorned to hide his bold intent : 
Thinkest thou he was afraid 
To protect fair Adelaide ? 

Roland, Roland of Blenheim ! 
Where was Robert of thy line, 
Most renowned for wily art ? — 
He whose bold and subtle heart 



A LEGEND OF BLENHEIM. 255 

Strove for victory more than fame, 
But whose great and noble aim 
Blessed the deed by cunning planned, 
And brought healing to the land, — 
Called the ' Fox ; ' oh ! long since dead : 
Was he dead to Adelaide ? 

Roland, Roland of Blenheim ! 

Where was he renowned through time, — 

Wisest William, who, with skill. 

Planned the good, foresaw the ill ; 

Whose designs ne'er ran to waste 

By delay or feebler haste ; 

And who owned, in every aim. 

Wisdom was but Virtue's name ? 

Whither had his spirit fled. 

That he saw not Adelaide ? 

Roland, Roland of Blenheim ! 
Where were all those of thy line ? 
Sweet Cecilia, who, though fair. 
Gave her youth to heaven and prayer. 
Whom all voices loved to bless, — 
Goodness joined to loveliness ? 
All who saw her when she died, — 
Adelaide, thy fair-haired bride ? 
All these see thee as thou art, 
With the blood-stains on thy heart ! 

Murdered for her noble place ; 
Then a curse fell on thy race : 



256 A LEGEND OF BLENHEIM. 

Oh ! such curses then there were 
As the demons only swear. 
Till she rests in holy ground, 
And her marriage-ring is found, 
Cursed art thou and all thy line, 
Roland, Roland of Blenheim ! " 

Then she floated away without sound or sigh, 

Gazing long on the lord with her glittering eye ; 

Yet her lips had not moved, and her song came the 
while. 

Like the moan of the wind through the deep chancel- 
aisle : 

But her words chilled the lord, like the drops that bled 

From the heart of the pale, cold Adelaide. 

Then the lights on the wall, glaring, suddenly made 
A sharp tongue of fire of each burnished blade ; 
And the lord gazed thereon, till his dark eyebrows met, 
And his heavy locks dripped with the large drops of 

sweat, 
When the torch-light went out, though no wind whispered 

near ; 
And the Lord of Blenheim fell dead in his fear ! 

Long they sought, but in vain, where the lost grave was 

made 
Of the flower of their line, the sweet Adelaide : 
One by one, all the lords of the house of Blenheim, 
When they came to their power, died long ere their time ; 
And the green ivy spread like a veil on the wall. 
And the bats beat their wings undisturbed in the hall. 



A LEGEND OF BLENHEIM. 257 

And many a stone, crumbling, fell from its height, 
While the arras grew dim in the sun's searching light ; 
But none sought the hall since the hour of fear, 
When the song of the phantom fell cold on the ear ; 
And years waned apace, and they bore to the tomb 
The last heir of Blenheim, like a rose in her bloom. 

When, lo ! o'er the tomb while the bearers delayed. 
Pale and white on the ground sat the lost Adelaide, 
With a ring round her throat of her own scarlet blood. 
And the ring with which the false lover had wooed : 
Then they laid by her side the sweet rose of Blenheim ; 
For the curse was appeased with the last of her line. 



33 



25 S 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



Cross o'er the meadow, 
By the hill-shadow, 
Through the wet weeds, — 
Weeds dropping seeds ; 
And thou'lt find, l)ctween 
Two old oaks still green, 

A house all alone, — 
Unto summer heat, 
Winter wind and sleet, 

Loft as their own. 

Hills press to its sides ; 
And behind it glides 

A streamlet gay. 
Youthful in the shade 
By an orchard made 

Gray with decay. 

And if the door, aslant. 
Waits the visitant. 

No welcome guest, — 
The wind, in gusts so free, 
Closes, as hearing thee, 

All forther quest. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 259 

Hither birds flying, 
Through the windows hieing, 

Linger and rest ; 
But none, at thy sigh, 
Shall in terror fly 

Unto their nest. 

Winged seeds are lying, 
Fall leaves are dying, 

On the hearthstone ; 
But no cricket sings. 
No gray swallow springs, 

Where the fire shone. 

And thou, fancy-led, 
Oft shalt turn thy head 

Unto some guest. 
As thou hear'st, with dread, 
Seemingly the tread 

Long gone to rest. 

And on every stair 
Creep the steps of air ; 

And in the hall 
The free wind sighs to thee, 
Like the long-vanished glee 

Of the festival ; — 

While by the hearthstone. 
Solitude alone, 

Unblessed and unblessing, 



260 THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

Sits like a night-mare, 
With a vacant stare, 
Life oppressing. 

Oh ! why, dost thou ask, 
Is it nature's task 

Only to spoil 
All the works of man, 
Though the noblest plan 

Honored his toil ? 

Oh for their faces 
In the old places, 

Lovely of yore ! 
Oh for their voices 
When the heart rejoices,— 

Gone evermore ! 

Our love is burning. 
Our hearts are turning 

To those we deplore. 
Who once wept with us. 
And who laughed with us, 

Gone evermore ! 



26 1 



ODE TO SOLITUDE. 



Hail, Solitude ! the giddy Hours 

Would woo thee from thy shady nooks : 

Meek sister of the modest Eve, 

Compassion breathes in all thy looks, 

And there's the modest freedom in thy gait 

Of one who neither braves nor fears his fate. 



I've sought from thee, nor sought in vain, 
The peace that's by the World disturbed, 

When thou, the conqueror of wrong, 

Wouldst teach like one who once had erred ; 

Thy words insuring me amid my woes 

The same kind pardon that I grant my foes. 



How oft with thee and Night I've walked. 
Accusing Heaven, along the vale ; 

The Night, too, weeping dewy tears ! 
And thou hast calmly checked my tale, 

Hast bid me read Time's book of simple scope 

For all I lacked of patience and of hope. 



262 ODE TO SOLITUDE. 

Hail, Solitude ! oft would I hear 

Thy voice which bids me search my soul, 

And, with the wisdom of the dead, 
Teach that man's good is self-control ; 

While shades evoked by thee sigh from the sods ; 

Their weakness was their own, their glory God's. 



263 



LIBERTY. 



Dear Liberty ! like young Aurora, lo ! she comes 

And stands high up, perchance on Tyrolean hills ; 
And then, in slumberous beauty sitting by the thrones 

Of noble kings, her grandeur all the presence fills : 
Again, some vast republic's banner in her hands, 
Her face half hidden in its folds, aloft she stands. 
But, smiling sweetly, oft like one who thinks of home. 

She comes to some brave heart upon his dungeon-bed, 
And, whispering that the perfect man is free alone. 

The sunshine like a glory shines about her head : 
Glad as a child, with gfandest hopes her spirit stirs ; 
For, lo ! the vast, immortal years of God are hers ! 



264 



ON A PICTURE. 



Lo ! in the shade, one summer's noon, 
A shepherd sat, with drooping head, 

And, watched his flock as slow they strayed 
Beside the cooling river's bed. 

Scarce waved the trees, as if they knew 
How sweet a gloom their branches made ; 

And e'en the sunshine seemed to sleep 
In golden brightness 'mid the glade. 

The droning flies had shut their wings ; 

The drowsy flowers had ^osed their leaves ; 
And everywhere there reigned a calm. 

Without the sigh that Silence heaves. 

Soft, hazy airs were round the hills, 
And o'er the lake of dazzling blue ; 

More dazzling still, white, fleecy clouds 
With silent wings were floathig through. 

The stream's continuous sound alone, 

Like Nature's breath, with measured sweep, 

Swelled from a hidden spring of life. 
And flowed to an unfathomed deep. 



ON A PICTURE. 265 

And, as a mother lulls lier child, 

Peace seemed to lull the world to rest, 

Which, with a dreamy sense of joy, 

Smiled, while she slumbered on her breast. 



34 



266 



THE FLOWERS OF MY GARDEN. 



Fair Flowers in my garden grow ; 

No fairer Flowers this earth can show : 

Each one, a miracle of art, 

Hath won how many a poet's heart ; 

And, though misnamed, how many still 

Recall the poet's mystic skill ! 

Flowers ! affection's sweetest token. 

The pledge of faith and troth unbroken ! 

fairest, frailest Flowers ! ye can 

No labor do for toiling man. 

But bloom, returning love for love, — 

Meek messengers of heaven above. 

How many sorrows ye have soothed ! 

How many doubting fears removed ! 

First, with the Spring, children of love. 

The Hyacinths my care approve ; 

For love I rather see than woe 

On Hyacinthus' floweret grow. 

Which sprang all bleeding from the sods, 

Red with his frolic with the gods : 

feeblest love, which could not save. 

Even when immortal, from the grave ! 

But, sweetest Crocus ! wast thou born 

Of Hermes' grief for one alone ? 



THE FLOWERS OF MY GARDEN. 267 

Or, youth too loving, hath some power 

Immortalized love in a flower ? 

And here are Pansies freaked with jet ; 

And here the sombre Violet ; 

While close the Cowslips hide in green, 

The pensioners of the Fairy Queen ; 

And low the nodding blossoms wave 

Which grew on fond Narcissus' grave, 

Who loved his shadow in the stream. 

And died of love ; for none, I ween. 

Not even the Nereids, were so fair, — 

Fairer than Scylla, fairest there ; 

While famed St. Edward's royal flower, 

The brown Imperial, rules the hour ; 

Later, Spring Tulips, passion-fired. 

And Honeysuckles well attired ; 

And Pinks and Larkspurs, blue and dark, 

Like birds imprisoned on the stalk ; 

Canterbury's Cathedral Bell, 

Whose notes with swaying breezes swell. 

By golden tongues, with rise and falls, 

Swinging in amethystine walls ; 

And sweeter Bells, with azure dyes. 

Which caught their color from the skies ; 

And here the great white Lily springs, 

Earest of all rare blossomings, — 

Born of that milk which gave, sweet shower ! 

A god to heaven, to earth a flower, 

Second to none which Summer brings. 

" Lilies," perchance the Mantuan sings, 

" The sylvan gods bore in their hands ; " 

Or sweeter song, in Christian lands, 



268 THE FLOWERS OF MY GARDEN. 

Says that it blossoms on the days 
Sacred unto the Virgin's praise. 
But, Fleur de Lys ! mysterious flower 
Carved on the Sphinx in Egypt's power, — 
An emblem, would fond Fancy ask, 
Of the great Hebrew and his task. 
wondrous flower, Fleur de Lys ! 
Old and new France will blazon thee ! 
Drawn by an angel's pen at night 

Upon the banner of her host. 
The heavens glowing with strange light, 

Strange echoes startling all the coast ; 
Oft folded o'er the Indian's rest. 
And Canada's ungenial breast : 
proudest Lily ! none like thee 
Have spread their leaves o'er land and sea ! 
Here Marigolds their florets spread, 
Like glories round the Virgin's head ; 
And red Nasturtiums, rich and rare, 
Sparkle to greet the evening air. 
Which once, on some triumphal gate. 
Added fresh glory to the State ; 
Whose leaves are shields that heroes bear, 
Its flowers the helmets heroes wear. 
And here the Heliotrope's soft dyes 
Turn to the sun, like Clyte's eyes ; 
And, underneath the wall and thorn. 
Grow flowers of Mintha, maid forlorn. 
The prey of Proserpine's proud scorn, — 
Mintha, whose crushed leaves distil 
The comfort she could never feel. 



THE FLOWERS OF MY GARDEN. 269 

And here the gaudy flower appears 
Which sprang from Helen's flowing tears ; 
Bold flower, not half so sweetly glowing 
As those fair buds, which, dew bestowing, 
Wakened by Phyllis' mournful doom. 
Blushed into life and sweet perfume. 
These could I number, more than these. 
Nor once would gather Daphne's leaves, 
Who with ambitious laurels strove 
To soothe Apollo's ardent love. 
But, fairest Flower ! thou Queen of Flowers ! 
I watch thee most in sun and showers. 
Who hast the nightingale's warm heart. 
Thy perfumes of his song a part ; 
For Fable says, that Flora, straying 
Through summer woods, and oft delaying. 
Found in a covert still and dark 
A Dryad maiden cold and stark, — 
So pale, alas ! dear gods, defend 
All maidens from so sad an end ! 
And Flora, mourning o'er her loss, 
Made of her essence, free from dross, 
A Rose as lovely as her face. 
And every god did add some grace, — 
A Rose all blanched like her own beauty ; 
But Cupid, missing of his duty, 
O'erturned some nectar on the flower. 
Which crimson grew beneath the shower. 
And, in Love's warm and tender flush, 
Rivalled her beauty's living blush. 
Rose of Love ! what flower like this, 
The type of sorrow, type of bliss ? 



270 THE FLOWERS OF MY GARDEN. 

In dewy garlands, freshly made, 

I wore thee once upon my head ; 

Now hid in silence on my heart, 

Part of my love and grief a part : 

Rose ! my love, though dead, still blooms 

Faded like thee, still breathes perfumes. 



271 



THE HEATHEN MOTHER'S LAMENT. 



ROSES, full of rich perfume, 
Waste not your sweetness on the air ; 
But shed it drop by drop, with care, 
Upon this little bed, 
Where my dear child is laid ! 
And thou, my love, oh think how tenderly 
These wreaths I twined for thee ! Oh, woe is me 
For thou canst know no more my care for thee. 

See, in the distant East, the Morn 

Comes proudly like a new-made queen, 
All flame, but that soft airs proclaim 
The loving face and heart within. 
She glorifies the bed 
Where my dear child is laid ; 
And thou, my love, thou must awake, and see 
The glowing light around. Oh, woe is me ! 
Life hath no pleasures left me without thee. 

Yonder a little bird bemoans 

Her new-made nest and murdered young ; 

Now, whirling up, with shrieking tongue 

She mourns above the bed 

Where my dear child is laid : 



272 THE HEATHEN MOTHER's LAMENT. 

. But, oil ! my love, so still art thou ! Her cry 
I hear, alas ! and feel not : woe is me ! 
I have no other sorrow than for thee. 

And when my friends come, with their tears. 
Rousing my courage over all, 
Between our love, like a great wall, 
Rises this little bed. 
Where my dear child is laid. 
Oh ! why, my love, why linger 'neath the sods ? 
What need hath Heaven of thee ? Oh, bitter words ! 
For I no longer reverence the gods. 

Close to the earth the troubled mother 
Seemed to shut out the light of day ; 
While high the wild-bird wheeling upward 
Mourned out her sorrow on her way : 
Softly the roses shed their rich perfume. 
Softly the morning chased away the gloom ; 
But, ah ! no Saviour's voice unsealed the tomb. 

March, 1857. 



273 



MINISTRY OF GRIEF. 



Love ! Ambition ! watchwords of man's zeal I hear, 
And I in vain would answer from my house of clay, 
Tired of my tedious bondage many a troubled year ; 
And still I question, sadly question, night and day, — 
Why was I born to weary out love's self with grief, 
To waste in idleness, or struggles for relief? 
So, grieving, half distraught, I saw the birds at dawn 
Beating against the winds in their careering flight ; 
And those same winds, 'gainst which they struggled in 

the morn. 
Bore their light wings, o'erwearied, gently home at night. 
And so, dear friend, these very trials, bravely borne. 
May bear my heart at last to its own brighter Home ! 



1857. 



35 



274 



HYMN, 



Father, our feeble, erring feet 

Have wandered from the heavenly road ; 
And vainly now, while night draws on, 

We would return to thine abode. 

For clouds rest o'er the ground we've trod, 
And all is lost which charmed of late ; 

And, 'mid a lonely wilderness. 
With doubtful steps we hesitate. 

While vague alarms possess our souls, 
We know not where or how to flee ; 

But now, dear Lord ! oh, lead us back. 
To wander never more from thee. 

Heal these sad wounds, these garments change ; 

And henceforth, constant in our faith, 
Thy mercy, more than all our fears, 

Shall save us from the way of death. 



1857. 



275 



1857. 



TO A FRIEND. 



May thy sins, no more remembered 
In thy Saviour's pardoning eye, 

Only make thee pray more humbly 
For his aid when danger's nigh. 

Mayst thou bear with thine own weakness, 
Since the Lord is strong to save ; 

Proud to serve, since to his servants 
Christ the largest freedom gave. 

May thy heart receive with meekness 
All the wounds that make it bleed. 

Feeling that, with grief anointed, 
Thou shalt reign with Christ indeed. 

Holy angels show thee visions, 

Plainly to thy sleeping eyes. 
Which shall give thee strength, awaking, 

For each holy sacrifice. 



r n K V. N D. 



